Toil and Trouble
by Madame Oubliette
Summary: Hermione finds herself coming between the Weasley twins when she comes to stay at The Burrow over the Christmas holidays. Not what you might think.
1. In The Rose and Crown

Chapter 01: In The Rose and Crown

Christmas at the Weasley's. Hermione knew she should be happy that she didn't have to spend the holidays alone at Hogwarts, but there was something terribly wearing about the permanent volatility inherent in any large family. The only child of sensible slipper-and-pipe dentists couldn't quite reconcile her own regulated home life with the hectic disorder that was life at The Burrow - and was probably her mother's vision of Dante's ninth ring of hell. To make matters worse, Harry had been unable to accept Ron's invitation, so she was going to notice the jar even more keenly as the only non-Weasley resident. She hoped they didn't mind her intrusion too much.

"Ronald! Ginny!" Mrs. Weasley flung open the peeling door to The Burrow and embraced her youngest children.

"Mum!" Ron whined as he tried to disentangle himself from his mother's steel grip, sneaking a side-ways glance at Hermione, who stood smiling to herself behind the happy reunion.

"Oh, and Hermione too! How are you, love?" Mrs. Weasley gestured to Hermione to come forward too, and kissed her affectionately on the cheek.

"Fine thanks, Molly. Journey was pretty, erm, wet." She shook her head vigorously, large droplets of water flying off from the ends of her curling hair.

"What am I thinking? Keeping you all out in this freezing rain, you'll catch your deaths! Come in, come in!" She rounded them all through the door, sweeping them over to three wooden chairs in front of the fire. "Now you'll be wanting something to drink, won't you? As it's your first day back I got some Butterbeers in and did some real home baking this morning. Here you go." She handed them all steaming mugs and home-made biscuits, leaning against the old Aga and surveying her young charges with obvious contentment.

"Where are the others?" Ron said, spraying a mouthful of crumbs down his front. Hermione watched him with disgust; he had taken what she and Harry referred to euphemistically as a 'Ron bite', and swallowed the biscuit whole. Seemingly chewing was for losers, and his incisor teeth had probably not seen any action since emergence. She put her own biscuit down half-way to her mouth, her hunger rapidly evaporating.

"Well, Charlie's still in Romania, hoping to get a couple of days off over Christmas, but not particularly optimistic. Bill is staying in France with Fleur's family, as you know. Percy is… well, I'm sure he's happy." She let out a small sniff, that pulled on Hermione's heartstrings. She knew that Mrs. Weasley was finding it difficult to adjust to her rapidly emptying nest. Her boys were growing up, casting off their mother's protection as an unwanted intrusion. "Fred and George, well, I think they're about somewhere. Fred mentioned something about going into Ottery St. Catchpole; they've become quite attached to the Muggle pub there." She let out another small sniff, that left no doubt to her obvious disapproval.

"How long are they here for?" Ginny said hopefully. She had confided to Hermione that The Burrow was always more lively when the twins were around. Hermione had agreed that they were certainly entertaining, although she had kept the qualifier 'in the same way that French mimes are funny the first time' to herself. It was not that she necessarily disliked the twins - there was no disputing that they were perfectly amiable young men - she just… didn't get them. And they made her feel as though her carefully cultivated conscientiousness was just an unattractive skin, which withered and peeled away under their scrutinising gaze. She got the horrible feeling that they could see through her. She had tried explaining this to Harry before, but he had just looked at her blankly and laughed.

"All the holidays, I think. Or at least for the first fortnight. It depends how popular their mail order service is on whether or not they'll need to work in the shop over Christmas. But of course, they'll still be commuting to Diagon Alley fairly regularly to oversee Verity."

"So, did you say they're in The Rose and Crown?" Ron queried, in what Hermione guessed was an attempt to steer the conversation into safer waters. It was clear from her tone that Mrs. Weasley had still not got over the shock of her two boys dropping out from Hogwarts, sans N.E.W.T.s.

She sighed. "Yes, most probably. Do you know, they didn't come home till two in the morning yesterday – absolutely off their heads, on what smelt suspiciously like cheap Muggle cider. And pray, what property is it in alcohol that convinces every Tom, Dick, and Harry that their inebriated singing voice is so beautiful, that it would be selfishness itself not to share it with the rest of the world, forthwith?"

"Er, false sense of confidence?" Ron butted in helpfully, but was overtaken by the continuation of Molly Weasley's pulpit rant against the evils of the demon drink.

"…And then, would you believe, they come into the kitchen and attempt to make cheese on toast. Only, Fred's so drunk that he falls over on the floor and can't get up again because he can't tell which way is up! All the while, George has decided that, actually, sobriety is the enemy of creative interior design, and has started trying to paint the kitchen walls alternate stripes of shredless marmalade and mayonnaise. Which were not, incidentally, on your father and mine's pinwheel chart when we decorated the cottage."

"So, erm, they'll be needing dragging home then?"

"…And don't even get me started on the sort of company they've started hanging around with. It's a sad day indeed when a father comes home from work after an honest day's toil, only to find two toothless tramps and one misguided Jehovah's Witness sitting at his dinner table, without so much as an explanation as to how they got there. Didn't even try to-"

"We'll be off then, you won't be wanting us under your feet, I should imagine," Ron said, frantically shepherding Hermione and Ginny out of the door.

"Phew, sorry about that 'Mione," he muttered, as soon as they had scuttled down the path and were out of earshot.

"Yeah, mum can get like that a bit sometimes. Don't know why though; not as if her and Dad haven't woken us up totally sozzled before, trying to convince us that really we want to randomly make chocolate Rice Krispie cakes at three in the morning, or that a game of Twister would actually be great fun." Ginny pulled a face, but Hermione was strangely touched by this discovery. Her own parents were staunch tee-totalists, which she guessed was their own choice, and one which they were free to take, but she couldn't help thinking that it was indicative of their wider personality.

They carried on down the country lane in high spirits, chatting amiably as they enjoyed the feeling of the beginning of the holidays, and the fresh winter air on their bare faces.

"It's so beautiful here," Hermione breathed as they ambled down the middle of the deserted road, looking around in wide-eyed appreciation at the merry hedgerows and freshly ploughed fields.

"You wouldn't say that if you lived here," Ginny groaned, "It's all right for you town girls to come down here and be all appreciative of our rustic lifestyle, but you try living here full-time and it soon wears thin. Give me shopping centres and decent leisure facillities over boring farmer's fields any day of the week."

"What about you, Ron, do you like it?" Hermione had never heard Ron complain about his home, except perhaps once or twice to use the adjective 'quiet' – and after sitting in The Burrow for five minutes, she thought it debatable whether or not that was intended as a negative comment.

"Yeah, it's home, isn't it?" He shrugged, steering Hermione by her elbow to a small path on their left.

"It's a short-cut," Ginny explained, hopping deftly over the style. "Takes us out into the beer gardens of the Rose and Crown."

"Oh, I thought we just said that to Molly to get out of the house?"

"Oh lighten up, 'Mione. One drink won't make you an alcoholic, and you can always have an orange juice," Ron said, sounding perhaps a little harsher than he had intended as he got his trouser leg snagged on a rusty nail.

Hermione frowned. It was not the drink she had the exception to, it was the thought of being thrown in at the deep end so soon, and forced to make conversation with Fred and George. Both sides knowing that they had nothing in common, and would rather be talking to someone else. But why did Ron always have to make her feel like such a spoilsport? Slightly hurt, she hauled herself over the style and followed behind Ron on the narrow path.

"Here we are, welcome to Sodom and Gomorrah," Ginny giggled, stepping out onto an overgrown, scraggly lawn. "Let's get our drinks in then find Freorge." She led the way confidently across the wet grass, past some disused picnic benches and onto an open patio.

"Er, Gin." Hermione tapped the younger girl tentatively on the shoulder. "How are we going to buy drinks when we're underage?"

"Oh, that's easy. We always just send Ron in – who's going to query a six-foot Weasley; it's even odds whether the barman will call him Bill or Charlie."

"What do you girls want to drink then?" Ron said, digging in his pocket for some coins, which he surveyed dismally. "We'll do rounds, yeah?"

"Mine's a gin and tonic," Ginny replied straight away. Hermione hid her surprise. It was not that Ginny was exactly what you would call straight-laced, but she always looked so conveniently innocent. She only had to look at a Hogwarts teachers and politely shake her head, and even Snape would believe that no, sir, she had no idea how the red pen in her hand had come to write such rude things across his classroom wall.

"Make that two," she said quickly, not wanting to seem like she wasn't savvy, although she had been led to believe by popular Muggle soaps that only leather-faced old hags drank gin and tonics, ordering them from youthful barmen with barely contained innuendo that was toe-curlingly embarrassing to watch.

"Right." Ron nodded, then strode into the building. It was one of those establishments that would instantly communicate the word 'quaint' to American tourists, 'expensive' to visiting Scotsmen, and just plain 'local' to natives. It had obviously been built by those famed Lilliputian architects of the eighteenth century, as even Hermione regarded the low wooden beams warily. The stonewalls had been painted an earthy red colour, with scenes depicting pre-industrial English agriculture hanging haphazardly from its uneven contours. Ron led the way through a veritable warren of narrow beer-slopping passages, small drinking rooms that seemed designed for conspiracy rather than comfort, a pretentious eating area, and finally into the main bar. He caught the barman's attention who, sure enough, addressed him as 'Bill' throughout the duration of the smooth transaction.

"Here you are, ladies." Ron handed the tall glasses to Hermione and Ginny, reserving the pint of bitter for himself. Hermione took a tentative sip as Ginny led them back through the labyrinth. She nearly spat the mouthful out again as the bitter liquid caught in her throat – no wonder all those old bats on television looked so bloody sour faced!

"They'll be in Traitor's Corner no doubt," Ginny said authoritatively as she turned to face Ron.

"What's Traitors Corner?" Hermione was starting to feel more and more excluded and out of the loop.

"Oh, that's where those two sit of an evening, planning world domination. It's one of those small cupboard rooms we passed on the way to the bar; no one else ever goes in there. Reckon there's a bad feeling in there. Which there probably is – wouldn't have put it past those two to place some sort of disorientatement Charm on their favourite seats. Here we are."

Ginny ducked her head and entered into possibly the smallest room known to beer drinkers throughout the British Isles. Hermione followed after Ron, neatly garrotting her midriff against the edge of a heavy wooden table that, by all laws of logic, space and safety regulation, should not be situated so closely to the entrance.

"Yeah, it's a bit cramped in here," Ron said helpfully as he attempted to snake his tall frame into one of the chairs around the table. Fred and George were sitting grinning on an oak bench, a pint of bitter in front of George and, unless Hermione's eyes were deceiving her, a nasty-looking purple alcopop - complete with luminous party straw - in front of Fred. Ginny stepped aside and breathed in so that Hermione could pass and seat herself beside Ron and opposite the offending drink.

Ginny must have noticed Hermione's eyes on it, for she giggled as she sat down at the head of the small table. "Yeah, that's Fred's preferred drink of choice. And no, he assures us that he's not gay."

"Clever finances, my young friend. If I buy said drink, at 5 proof, for a small investment of ninety-nine pence, and proceed to drink said drink, with this here attractive drinking implement, I will succeed in getting blissfully inebriated at only a fraction of the cost." He took a noisy pull on the straw, as if to demonstrate the point.

"I think your sound financial advice is wasted on such young, unfettered minds, Fred. I appreciate that wisdom, truly I do bro', but until they produce an alcopop that doesn't taste like a children's lollipop I'm afraid I can't bring myself to ditch and switch. And of course, a purple coloured tongue seems to give off very mixed signals to young ladies of the more attractive variety."

Ron snorted. "What would you know about that?"

"More than you, mate." George shot back, eyes critically appraising Ron. "Did you sneeze when mummykins was cutting your hair, or did you actually pay a barber to do that?"

Ron flattened his hair irritably, scowling into his pint. Hermione took another hesitant sip of her drink and found that it didn't travel well; if anything, it was even worse than she remembered. Ginny, however, was happily drinking away, looking to all intents and purposes like the sophisticated city girl Hermione was supposed to be.

Ginny turned and addressed the twins playfully. "Mum was telling us about your latest exploits; seems she thinks The Burrow is beginning to go against the trade descriptions act and should be renamed in honour of Betty Ford. What have you two been getting up to?"

"What does she expect? We came home for Christmas-" Fred began.

"-Just like she wanted-" George interrupted.

"-But there's nothing to do around here but drink."

"It's a sad state of affairs," George leaned forward in his seat, fixing Ginny and Hermione with a somewhat off-centre stare, "When the talk of the village is the unprecedented controversy created by Mrs. Dawson's painting of the sodding garage door to Rose Cottage."

"Now, now, George, you're being a bit unfair there. You're trying to make it sound worse than it actually is to our expectant visitor. You've neglected to mention our enthralling social fixture; that weekly hothouse of intelligent political debate and open-minded adventure that is the Neighbourhood Watch committee."

George slapped a hand to his forehead in mock forgetfulness as Hermione laughed along weakly with Ron and Ginny. It was not that Hermione did not appreciate their humour, she just found it jarringly artificial at times – as though she was being treated to a self-conscious performance of the 'Fred 'n' George' show.

Two hours and too many drinks later their antics were beginning to jar even more, although evidentially they were contagious. Even Ron was in high spirits as he declared that he could 'easily' fit one of the filthy beer mats into his mouth. Hermione sipped her orange juice, watching with quiet disapproval. She wasn't usually like this. She could have fun. So why did Fred and George always have to bring out this horribly sensible side to her? It was as though some divine being in the cosmos was trying to strike a neutral balance.

"…Now, as I wuz jus sayin torun," Fred drawled, swaying from side to side as he thrust a finger under Hermione's nose, "this iz jus to beginen."

Hermione nodded politely, trying to decipher what her Grandmother, untouched by the fetters of political correctness, referred to euphemistically as a 'Glaswegian accent.' She looked to Ron for help, but he was still preoccupied with the beer mat challenge that had literally been keeping him quiet for the last ten minutes. Now she thought about it, she seemed to remember that George had suggested it. In any case, proving that boys really will make a competition out of anything, he seemed to have decided to join Ron in the quest for asphyxiation, and was currently chewing the soggy cardboard of an over-used beer mat in tandem. Ginny had wisely abandoned ship 'Drunken Weasley' long ago, having struck up a conversation with an attractive former friend at the bar. This left Hermione to deal with three increasingly drunk male Weasleys by herself.

Fred got up from the bench and tried to sit on Ginny's vacated chair, missed horribly, and crashed onto the floor. Hermione cringed, certain that that would be another bruise to add to the morning tally of Unidentified Drunken Injuries. Rendered invincible by drink, however, Fred merely grinned at Hermione sheepishly, before groping around with his hand for the chair seat.

"Do you know, Hermnenny, I don appears able to find mon chair." His suddenly lucid eyes fixed on hers, as he picked himself off the floor with a surprising amount of dignity. "Dya mind if I use yours?" He wobbled forward and lunged onto her lap, knocking the wind out of her lungs as his substantial Quidditch weight crushed her legs.

George tried to laugh with half a beer mat successfully lodged in his mouth, which resulted in his face turning a violent puce colour as he doubled over in a choking fit. Ron spluttered indignantly in the background.

"Gerrof her Fred You're squashing her!" he said, suddenly regaining some sobriety as he realised that his position as alpha male was under threat.

"Oh. Am I?" Fred inquired innocently, looking around in confusion as though it were news to him that he was sitting on a sixteen year old girl and not, in actual fact, a hard wood bench. "Do beg your pardon," he said politely and lumbered back over to the bench.

"Ron," Hermione tugged insistently on his sleeve. "Do you think we better be making our way back now? I think Molly will be expecting us for tea."

Ron thought for a moment, opened his mouth to say something, but was stopped by a sudden retching sound emitted by George.

"Yes, leaving would be an excellent idea," he said quickly, shooing Hermione and Fred out of their seats as he grabbed George by the lapels and dragged him after them. "You find Ginny while we, er, wait outside."

Ginny was not particularly difficult to track down. Hermione spotted a flaming red beacon in the far corner of the main bar and wandered over.

"Hermione!" The girl looked up and smiled radiantly. "This here is Seth, Joe, and Finbar," she said, indicating to the three boys in turn.

Hermione nodded politely at each, before turning back to her friend. "We were thinking we better get back now."

"Oh, if you insist." Ginny rolled her eyes and muted the protestations of her drinking companions.

"What sort of state are Freorge in?" she said as they made their way out of the crowded pub. "Roll them home and stick them in the bath-tub mode, or take the long cut back and slap them around the face a bit mode?"

"Is there a third option of leave them in a ditch mode?"

Ginny giggled. "Believe me, being the youngest of six boys earns you a gold star in drinking first-aid. Funnily enough, I'm the only one who can hold their drink - apart from Bill of course. Mum'll flip her nut if they roll up drunk off their faces, though. I don't know how many times she's said that she wants this Christmas to be a special one. I think she's still holding out hope that Percy might come. Oh, and did you see those lads I was with?"

Hermione nodded. "Who were they?"

"Oh, just some village boys. But Seth wants to meet up with me on Saturday. I said I would, but I'm not allowed to go by myself. So I asked if I could bring a friend, and now you're coming to." She finished brightly, trying to dazzle Hermione with a winning smile.

"I am?" Hermione raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Sure you are! You'll love Finbar, you've got loads in common."

"Like?"

"Well…" Ginny floundered, having obviously expected Hermione to jump at the chance of playing one half of a gooseberry on a reluctant double date.

"…Like the fact we both have friends who fancy the pants off each other so will both be completely ignored for the duration of the evening, leaving us to make that uncomfortable brand of conversation unique to strangers?"

"Exactly!" Ginny's face lit up as her sarcasm detector spectacularly malfunctioned. "Oh come on Mines; it'll be fun." She pouted as they stepped outside and immediately spotted the three boys playing some sort of extreme form of Frisbee that seemed to involve lots of diving into bushes. "The alternative is those three."

Nothing could have made up her mind quicker as Hermione graciously accepted an invitation which had rapidly transformed itself into a golden ticket.

"First thing's first, we have to get Freorge home without mum noticing anything's wrong. Oh, Ron should be easy enough," Ginny piped up when she noticed Hermione looking sceptically at him, "We just roll our eyes and say indulgently 'Ron will be Ron' and I swear she will understand. His drunken behaviour is comparatively normal."

Hermione was incredulous until they began the long walk back to The Burrow. Eventually, they managed to walk five abreast down the road, propping up the twins between them; Ron as the tallest relegated to the middle of the human pyramid.

"Is it always like this?" Hermione said desperately as they attempted to manoeuvre Fred and George through the back gate of The Burrow – Ron having seemingly absorbed Ginny and Hermione's sobriety through some form of osmosis.

"Pretty much. I have no idea how they cope when I'm not around. I'm just waiting for the call one day that George has been found trapped in a rhododendron bush suffering from hypothermia, or Fred arrested for lewd behaviour in a public place. Oh God, there's no way we can get these past mum!" Ginny groaned as Fred collapsed at her feet in a fit of hysterical giggles.

"Don't you Wizards have any antidote for alcohol; some sort of potion, perhaps?" Hermione wailed.

"Not on the open market, no. You'd get all sorts of drunks filling their blood with lethal amounts of alcohol, blocking off their body's natural rejection system," Ginny said bossily, just as Fred's natural rejection system kicked in spectacularly to her left.

"Well, it's a good job the Muggle world has more foresight. Ron, can you sneak in and get two cups of strong black coffee and do you have any Wotsits… no? Hula Hoops? Okay, what about Monster Munch?" Hermione reeled the crisp brands off with increasing desperation as Ron shook his head with increasing bewilderment to each to each item. "Well, anything carbohydrate-based then."

Ron returned five minutes later with two steaming mugs and half a loaf of bread.

"Mum's started laying the table," he announced grimly as he attempted to force feed George a thick crust.

"If we could just get them upstairs…" Ginny trailed off thoughtfully, before looking up suddenly with a light in her eyes. "Ron, you distract mum while we sneak them up to bed."

Ron pulled a face. "Why me?"

"Because she's more likely to pay full attention to you," she replied, pulling Fred up and placing his arm over her shoulder as she attempted to support him around the waist. "Now go!"

They counted to sixty before setting off toward the house, Hermione lumbering slowly under the weight of George. She heard Ron inquiring politely about his mother's views on the economic crisis in Chile as she successfully scuttled around the corner and reached the stairs without detection.

"You know, Minny, youza good sort, really," George mumbled as Hermione managed to manoeuvre him onto Charlie's bed. She could hear Fred banging around causing a raucous in his room next door, shouting something incomprehensible about a craving for seagull meat kebabs. "I always thought that, always stuck up for you, when Fred's slagged yoff. 'Fred,' I says 'she's a good sort really.'"

"Thank you," Hermione said tight-lipped as she placed a glass of water by his bedside. "There's a compliment that will keep me going through the darkest days. Next time Malfoy calls me a buck-toothed Mudblood I'll remember those kind words."

He reached out suddenly and grabbed her by the wrist, yanking her down and towards him, so that she landed clumsily on her knees, nose to freckled nose.

"Don't mean it like that. Don't lissen to Fred or Rons, dunno what theys talken about." His eyes scanned her face keenly. "I know what it feels like."

"Know what what feels like?" she replied tartly, unable to break away from his gaze.

"To be alone."

Hermione laughed harshly in his face, stirring the hair around his temples. "What makes you write me off as some sort of loner, in need of your pity?" she said angrily, trying to wrench her hand away. George tightened his pincer grip around her wrist and placed a hand behind her, cradling the back of her head in his palm.

"I've watched you. You have friends, but they don unnerstand you, don't see what you is capable of."

"You're wrong!" she flared, shaking her head as she tried to dislodge George's steadying hand. "This isn't the 1950's, and I'm not some sort of under-appreciated stay-at-home-and-cook-for-the-boys drudge. And how dare you presume to lecture me on solitude; you, what would you know about such things?"

"More than you'd think," he replied slowly, breaking his gaze and staring contemplatively away for a moment. "More than anyone thinks, in fact. There's nothing quite so lonely as constant company. I can't escape, Hermione, I can't escape!" he said shrilly, voice rising in panic as he dug his fingernails painfully into her flesh.

"For heavens sake, you're a brother, not a conjoined twin!" she snapped, finally succeeding in wrenching her arm away. George closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on making the room stop spinning round as Hermione slammed the door cruelly.

11


	2. Diagon Alley

Chapter 02: Diagon Alley 

"Fred and George still not up?" Mrs. Weasley frowned at her reflection in the mirror, before turning round to address her children. "And them going to bed so early last night, as well. Must have been tired out, bless their souls."

Ron and Ginny exchanged guilty glances. Hermione continued spooning creamy porridge into her mouth, hoping that if she ate her breakfast quickly enough they would manage to leave without seeing the twins. Although she had dismissed George's introspective diagnosis as nothing more than drunken ramblings, her bed had seemed uncommonly lumpy as she had lain tossing and turning, with nothing to dwell on but George's words. Maybe they were true. Well, she knew he was right; that was what had riled her so much. It was one thing admitting to loneliness in times of self-doubt, quite another hearing it prescribed so glibly by an observant acquaintance. But how could he possibly try to empathise with her? George: one half of the dream team, adored and feted wherever he went; popular, funny, attractive even. Hermione: walking dictionary and bossy know-it-all. She didn't appreciate him making fun of her like that, sneakily trying to draw a confession out of her.

"Well I can't wait for them, they can fix their own breakfasts. I'll be gone for a couple of hours while I get some more food shopping done. Lock up if you go out. See you later."

Hermione joined the Weasley chorus of goodbyes as Mrs. Weasley shut the door behind her. Ginny and Ron let out relieved sighs.

"Pssst, has she gone yet?"

Hermione turned around to see George – or possibly Fred, or possibly even a rogue vagabond – peek his head around the corner. His hair was standing on end in curly peaks and there were dark shadows underneath his gummy eyes.

"Wait." Ginny ran to the window and peered out on tiptoe. "Yep, coast's clear, Fred"

"Urrrrgh!" Fred groaned, crumpling pathetically into the nearest chair. "Tiny little men are playing very loud drums in my head."

"Eggs; fried or poached?" Ginny said authoritatively as she began laying thick rashers of bacon on the frying pan.

"Aw, Gin, you're a star. Fried, and no mushrooms for me." He lay his head back down on the table and closed his eyes.

"Mine's fried and extra baked beans." George broke in, stumbling sheepishly into the kitchen and looking as though he'd slept upside down. He stretched theatrically and let out a heartfelt yawn, scratching his chest through his open pyjama shirt distractedly. Hermione lowered her eyes and coloured slightly, wondering whether he was feeling the same awkwardness as her. She watched him from the corner of her eye as he collapsed into the chair next to Fred.

"What are you guys up to today?" Ron addressed the top of Fred's head.

"mmm nnnnm mmm nnnn m"

"And for those of us without the mumblese dictionary?"

"We were going to go into Diagon Alley - got to be there to sign for some new stock we're expecting," George said slowly, idly stirring the jam spoon around the sticky jar.

"Ooh, goody! Can we come along too? I was going to take Hermione into the village again – somehow I think her first impression of Ottery St. Catchpole was slightly skewed - but London would be much more fun."

"Yeah, I need to go to the Quidditch store." Ron broke in excitedly. "'Mione, you don't mind going to Diagon Alley, do you?"

She nodded, sneaking a quick glance at George to try and gauge his reaction. But he was too busy plaiting Cheerio hoops into Fred's hair to be bothered with Hermione's response.

After a leisurely breakfast, during which Fred treated them to a lively description of his stomach's contents, as revealed by the morning's violent bout of queasiness ('ooh, do you not want the rest of that toast, Hermione?'), they donned their travelling cloaks and stood expectantly in front of the fire.

"Ladies first." George handed the pot of Floo Powder to Ginny. She took a handful and threw it into the fire.

"Diagon Alley!" she shouted, before disappearing into the green flames.

Hermione walked forward nervously – she had never much cared for Floo travel.

"Diagon Alley!" She felt herself spinning wildly as dozens of grates whizzed past her eyes. She tucked her elbows tightly into her body, unable to shake off the feeling that she was only a hair's breadth away from careering into the brick walls. Finally she was spat out at the other end, stumbling out of a large stone fireplace and into a back room of the Leaky Cauldron. She stepped forward and out of the way just in time for Ron to skid out of the hearth after her. He was followed moments later by a sooty George and a very pale-faced Fred.

"Excuse me." He ran off toward the toilets, hand clamped over his mouth, a witness to Weasley's Third Law of Motion that hangovers and centrifugal forces do not mix.

George shrugged. "While my dear brother contemplates the finer things in life, I suggest we split up and meet back here for lunch at one o'clock."

"Here, you've got soot on your nose." Ginny leaned forward and tried to wipe the black smudge off his nose with her handkerchief.

"Gerrof!" George whined, pulling his head away as he noted with alarm the demonic Molly Weasley glint of domesticity in his sister's eyes.

"Come on," she giggled, linking her arm through Hermione's. "We need to do some shopping for Saturday night."

Which explains how Hermione came to find herself sitting boredly on the changing room floor of Madame Malkin's hours later.

"Does my bum look big in this?" Ginny whined expectantly as she pulled aside the changing room curtain aside and twirled in front of the floor length mirror.

"Mmm." Hermione mumbled noncommittally without taking her eyes off the Witch magazine she was rifling boredly through. She flipped past an article on the latest diet fad with disgust, dreading to think how Muggles would interpret their culture if they based it purely on analysis of their reading material. 'They'd think we were all men-obsessed harridans with arses the size of Venezuela,' she thought grimly to herself.

"You're not even looking!" Ginny stamped her foot impatiently. Hermione sighed and looked up to find Ginny looking as gorgeous as ever. She was wearing a deep purple dress that nipped in flatteringly at the waist, before flaring out below the boned bodice. "I mean, it's just to get some ideas, not like I can afford this."

"You look great Gin, just like you did in the last fifty dresses. Now can we please go?"

"Just a few more?" she pleaded, before being thrown what Ron would have instantly recognised as the patented Granger death stare, ideal for eradicating even the most stubborn of irritants. "Erm, well why don't we split up and meet up again at the Leaky Cauldron with the others?"

Hermione nodded with relief while Ginny stared blankly at the older girl, wondering whether an X chromosome had gone awry somewhere during conception. She watched her leave the shop with a sudden pang of guilt, wondering whether she had pushed her guest too far. It couldn't be easy for Hermione, knowing that she was not going to be able to be with her parents over Christmas and suddenly thrown headfirst into Weasley World. She would try to find more time for her tomorrow. Well, after their double date, of course. She sighed, before returning to the waiting pile of dresses with glee.

Hermione could hardly have stepped into a more different world. She breathed in slowly as she entered Flourish & Botts, as though trying to inhale all the knowledge contained within. A new book display caught her eye at the far end of the shop and she wandered over to the laden table. She picked up a copy of '_Famous Wizard Partnerships' _and opened it up on the contents page, looking to see whether it included any essays on Dumbledore and Flamel.

"Looking for me and my good brother in there?"

Hermione jumped about three feet in the air, clasping a hand to her hammering heart as she turned around to find George standing behind her. She usually had difficulty differentiating between the two, but was aided by the streaky black mark still smudged across his nose.

She rounded on him angrily. "You scared me half to death, sneaking up like that!" She paused. "And I thought you hated being one half of the dynamic duo."

"What are you talking about?"

"Last night, your little 'woe is me, and all I touch' speech."

He laughed uneasily. "I'm afraid my memory of last evening's activities begins and ends with the bottom of a pint glass. I'm quite proud of the fact I retained my vision, never mind the ability to string a semi-coherent sentence together. I wouldn't take anything I said to heart – was I confessing a dark, undying love for Professor McGonagall again?"

Hermione frowned. Although his tone was perfectly confident there was a distinct shiftiness about his eyes as they steadfastly avoided her own. Was this a front? Was he making a joke to hide his embarrassment… or was he really just that shallow? Her money was with the latter; she couldn't really get beyond the classroom clown she remembered from Hogwarts, surrounded by an enraptured audience in the Gryffindor common room.

"No, just some quasi-theological rubbish," Hermione lied. "What are you doing in here anyway?"

"Incredulity in Hermione Granger's voice; noted and digested. Sorry, am I not allowed to take an active interest in self-improvement, or have I been pigeon-holed as nothing more than an ignorant joke shop proprietor?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean… I wasn't trying to say-" Hermione blustered, until George broke out into a grin and leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially into her ear.

"Actually, I'm trying to find an Engorgement Potion recipe for a new range we're working on. But I like to retain my air of educated man about town."

Hermione blushed, well aware that she actually had pigeon-holed him. He watched her blushing and understood. At least she had the good grace to look embarrassed as she lowered her head, letting a few stray tendrils fall over her face. Well, he could certainly empathise with her on that point – the amount of times he had spent staring into a mirror as a child and wishing his hair were any other colour but red. He had heard Ginny trying to cajole her into applying Sleekeasy's Hair Potion enough times to know that her hair was probably not the most desirable type to teenage witches. Yet he thought it pretty; beautiful the way it escaped every time she tried to constrain and tame it within those small hair bands she insisted on using. If that were Ginny, she would have chopped it off and bleached it dead years ago. He fought the impulse to reach out and brush it away from her face, imaging what Fred would say if he knew that his twin was currently entertaining thoughts of Hermione Granger's attractiveness, or, more to the point, how Ron would react. Good job he knew they had absolutely nothing in common – impossible situation all round.

Hermione felt him looking at her, no doubt sneering at her bookishness. He was probably wishing his house invader could be more normal, more like his sister. She certainly wouldn't spend her precious time in Diagon Alley in a mouldy old bookstore. Never-the-less, she felt compelled to fill the silence - she was not having him think she was stupid as well as insensitive.

"I think the best one is in Gideon Mendelson's 'A Journey Through Potions, Old and New.' They've got it here in the reference section – bit too obscure to appear in with the Potions' textbooks. But it depends what you want the Engorgement Potion for; different recipes can have different reactions depending on what you combine them with. That's why I wouldn't recommend the one in 'Perplexing Potions Presented' which most people make the mistake of using; can have some pretty nasty side effects if you intend on using – what? Sorry, I'm boring you aren't I?" She blushed a deeper shade of red as she noted George's blank face.

"No, no, not at all! You're just going too fast for me to absorb it all. This is great stuff; I didn't have a clue where to start looking. Not something they taught at Hogwarts was it, ey?" He winked at her, and she felt her face grow even hotter at the implied innuendo. Damn it, she couldn't get used to seeing Fred and George as adults, rather than mischievous schoolboys she had to frequently admonish with threats of detention. The power pendulum had certainly swung the other way.

"I can show you where it is, if you want," she muttered.

He frowned. She didn't have to make her annoyance at his lack of Potions knowledge quite so obvious – it wasn't his fault that he had spent his obligatory five years in the dungeons trying to think up ever more ingenious ways to seriously piss off Snape. Well, okay, maybe it was, but it was hardly unjustified, or even particularly unusual. Yet he followed obediently as she led the way through to a small side room, watching her hips swing and wondering how long it would take before Ron laid his hands on them.

"Here." She took down a thick red book from the shelf and handed it to him, smiling. "You can copy the recipe down."

"Thanks." He smiled back, relieving her of the weighty tome. "Hermione, I-"

"What's this, a Weasley with something new in his hands? Contemplating a shoplifting career are we? Because Merlin knows you certainly can't afford to buy anything in this shop on your Dad's pathetic excuse for a wage. Oh, and I see you've managed to bag yourself a Mudblood accomplice. Just when I thought you couldn't sink any lower." Draco turned to acknowledge Hermione, cold grey eyes glittering maliciously as he swept into the room, looking her up and down critically.

"Shut it, Malfoy," George growled as Hermione placed a restraining hand on his arm. She knew that Draco was just trying to wind them up, to evoke a reaction that he could feed off. But while she was able to dismiss such insults as inflammatory rhetoric she was well aware that the Weasley boys could not stay so clear-headed when they found their family honour under attack.

"Draco." Hermione acknowledged him with a small, tight-lipped nod, trying to take the higher moral ground. George shook her hand off roughly and took a threatening step toward Draco. He had just opened his mouth to speak when another figure swooshed into the pokey side room. Tall and elegant, he swept his silver-lined robes around him with unnecessary flourish, taking in his son's unsavoury companions with a perceptible narrowing of his haughty eyes.

"Well, well," Lucius Malfoy spoke slowly, looking down his long aristocratic nose as he placed his ebony wand cane repressively on his son's shoulder. "What a pleasant surprise. Another Weasley and a… forgive me, I seem to have forgotten your family name." he sneered, in a way that left no doubt that he was passing comment on Hermione's Muggle descent rather than his memory.

"It's Granger, Hermione Granger," George spat angrily as Hermione cursed his fast temper. It was exactly this sort of reaction that always ended in trouble.

"Oh, silly me. How could I forget Hogwarts' most promising talent?" Lucius drawled. Hermione's eyes flicked to the pewter head of his wand cane, which she noted was digging viciously into the flesh of Draco's shoulder. "It seems one can hardly publish an examiners' report at Hogwarts without Hermione Granger's name appearing at the top."

"Er, thanks." Hermione knew Lucius was not really paying her a compliment as his eyes bored into hers. She could feel the icy hostility rolling off him in waves, and for a brief moment almost felt sorry for Draco, dragged along like an obedient dog on a leash.

"Perhaps my son can pick up something of your conscientiousness," he said smoothly, but with an unmistakably malicious undertone. He turned his withering gaze on Draco, who looked at Hermione with such venom that she almost gasped. Really, it was hardly her fault that he didn't work as hard as she did, and that she had beaten him in every O.W.L. except for History of Magic as a consequence. Did people expect her to write her exam papers with a blunt piece of chalk, sat on a wobbly chair or something, so that she could give the other students a chance? It was bad enough being blamed for her intelligence by her classmates without their parents also entering the affray.

"I dare say he can, picks most other things up," George sneered.

"Spoken like a true Weasley," Lucius flashed back, looking George up and down with distaste.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" George said, taking another step forward, which only succeeded in emphasising Lucius' impressive stature.

"Oh, I'm sure Miss Granger, our resident expert, can help you out with the difficult long words you don't understand," he drawled as Draco smirked appreciatively.

"Actually, we were just going." Hermione grabbed George by the elbow and steered him toward the archway and back into the main shop. Lucius stood unmoving for a second longer, before finally stepping out of the way when Hermione made to brush past him.

"Good day, Miss Granger," he smirked to her retreating back.

"What did you go and do that for?" George hissed as soon as they had stepped back onto the busy street. "Made us look like we were scared of him, scurrying out of the shop just because he entered. That's exactly what he wants." He made to turn back into the shop, causing Hermione to reassert her grip around his arm.

"No, what he wants is for you to lose your temper and do something silly. He's a dangerous man, Lucius Malfoy."

"I'm not scared of him," George snapped back, finally pulling his arm free.

"Well you should be!" Hermione screamed in his face, "You bloody well should be!"

George stumbled back in shock, confronted by Hermione's inner-Banshee. Yet it was not like his mother's shrieking hysterics; he could feel a powerful sense of purpose within Hermione which extended beyond the immediate concern of whether or not he had deposited wet Wheetabix in Ron's bed. This was for real.

"Men like that, they don't make idle threats. In fact, they don't make threats at all; they just do it. The Malfoy's have a lot more resources behind them than even your dad could imagine. One shouldn't succumb to anger over calculated insult trades, handing them the weapons with which to both attack and defend themselves. Think, George, before you open your big mouth next time."

She stalked off down the road, banging haphazardly into any Witch or Wizard who was fool enough to remain in her path. George stared into space for a while longer, digesting her words, before running to catch her up and knocking into the recently recovered pedestrians all over again.

"You're right, Hermione," he said, out of breath by the time he had managed to catch up with her. She was like an exorcet missile with elbows parting the crowds, while he lumbered through laboriously in a cloud of apologies and polite 'excuse me's. "I can't help getting riled by that little prick," he added bitterly.

"I know," she sighed, "But he's very perceptive. He calculates peoples emotional vulnerabilities and exploits them accordingly."

"I don't know how you keep your cool with him. Is it Ron he tends to give a hard time at school then?"

"Oh, I see. You're choosing to interpret my self-restraint as some form of hypocritical judgementalism? It's not a plague unique to the Weasley house, you know. Draco says some truly terrible things to me." She lowered her head.

"I didn't mean – well, yes I did actually," George admitted honestly, catching her eye and smiling sheepishly. "I guess you always seem so calm, so together. I forget you're just a mere mortal, underneath it all."

Hermione frowned, unsure whether he was making fun of her again. That was the trouble with funny guys; they only ever did one emotion. Try to set them in the context of a serious adult conversation and they sent all sorts of weird mixed signals whizzing through the air. Ron was much simpler to interpret, and she'd even come to recognise the tell-tale signs in Harry which warned her that he was about to veer off into one of his violent mood-swings. But she didn't have a clue what was going on in George's head. It bugged her, although she also found it strangely intriguing discovering what made him tick. Although he had plenty of friends she doubted whether they ventured below the glossy veneer he presented to the world. Even Ron had George well and truly typecast as Loveable Buffoon #2.

"Well if it makes you feel any better, you're not the only one who's lost their temper to him. I once slapped him across the face," she giggled, "And I don't know which was more priceless; the look on Malfoy's face, or the shock on Harry and Ron's."

"Hermione Granger! Bodily assault is no laughing matter, young lady… but since it's a Slytherin you so kindly chose to dehabilitate that'll be five points to Gryffindor," George said, mimicking his old Head of House, Professor McGonagall.

Hermione laughed. "I'm not even going to ask how you got so good at impersonating an elderly Scottish lady."

"Well, loveable young scamp that I am-"

Hermione held a hand up to interrupt him. "Stop right there. My delicate constitution can't take disturbing revelations this early in the day."

"I was referring to the amount of time I spent in her office on the receiving end of a 'talk' – what on earth did you think I was talking about?" He raised an eyebrow suggestively.

"Well, one does wonder exactly how you managed to stay in Hogwarts so long without getting kicked out on your ear." She looked at him sideways.

"Why, by merit of my amazing brains, of course. The sorting hat seriously considered putting me in Ravenclaw, you know."

Hermione's smile froze as she was filled with the horrible uncertainty of whether or not he was making fun of her again, remembering the very same words she had confided to Terry Boot at one of the Defence Association meetings. Honestly, it was more hassle than it was worth talking to George. He just made her feel miserable, and not in the straightforward Malfonian sense where you could walk off indignantly and proceed to righteously complain to a sympathetic ear. No one else seemed to get that he could be just as mean, in his own subtle way. It was safer just to not talk to him at all, to show him that she knew perfectly well what he was doing. She didn't want to hand him weapons that he would laugh about behind her back.

She moved away slightly, allowing a larger gap to grow between them as they walked to the Leaky Cauldron in uneasy conversation. George kept a constant stream of narrative going for her benefit, but it mostly went uncommented on by a suddenly dull Hermione. The louder her silence, the more he found himself babbling in intimidation. He knew he was boring her, so much so that she had fallen silent in an attempt to discourage further discourse, but he couldn't help himself. When he got nervous he talked; that's how he hid it. He wished he was interesting enough, clever enough, to hold her attention, but it seemed that he wasn't.

He held the door open for her as she stepped into the Leaky Cauldron, thankful for the company of others to remove her omniscient gaze. He needed a drink. Loosen up a bit.

9


	3. Saturday Night

Chapter 03: Saturday Night

"What time did Fred and George roll home last night?" Ginny whispered to Ron as soon as Mrs. Weasley turned around to wash the breakfast dishes.

"They didn't. They decided to stay at their flat. Which probably tells us something about the state they were in," Ron replied in an undertone.

Hermione rolled her eyes. It seemed that the twins were still well and truly stuck in their second childhood. A second childhood that seemed to involve rather more Vodka consumption than she imagined Mrs. Weasley had provided in their first childhood, but a second childhood none-the-less.

"Quiet without them, isn't it?" Ginny said, shooting a sideways glance at Hermione.

"Mmm," she agreed, deciding that now was not the right time to brutally disillusion a doting sister with her own thoughts on the matter. "What are we doing today then?" she asked brightly, trying to change the subject.

"Well, thought we'd stroll into the village while the weather holds out, seeing as we've been forecast snow," Ron finished dismally.

Hermione found Ottery St. Catchpole as fascinating as Ginny found it boring when they meandered lazily into the centre after breakfast.

"But look at all the pretty buildings!" she breathed, pointing to an embroidery shop with a white-washed cottage front.

"Novelty wears off after a while," Ginny said grimly, deftly moving out of the way of a dithering pensioner seemingly bent on self-destruction. She realised that Hermione had yet to realise that the average age of Ottery St. Catchpole residents was set at around 92.5 years, and that consequently it was one of those places where there was nothing to do if one was over the age of five or under the age of fifty.

"Most people would give anything to live in a place like this. Look at the surroundings; the countryside, the fresh air!" Hermione spun around, throwing her hands into the air in joy.

Ron smiled indulgently at her. "Thought you were a city girl?"

"Not out of choice. And… oh, look!" Hermione held her hand out to show the delicate snowflake nestled on her palm.

"It's snowing!" Ginny grinned, before turning round to face a scowling Ron. "What's the matter with you?"

"It's all right for you; snow is just the wet stuff you build a snowman out of and go sledging down. For me, it's Fred and George's chosen instrument of oppression."

Ginny laughed. "Stop being so melodramatic!" She turned to address Hermione. "You'd think Ron was the youngest, wouldn't you? Always whinging about how hard done by he is."

"Oh, well it's all right for you with your little miss innocent suck-up act," he snapped.

"Aw, poor little Ronnikins with his ikkle persecution complex." Ginny reached out and pinched his cheek patronisingly.

"Gerrof!" He brushed her hand away angrily. "You always have to do this, don't you?"

"Do what?"

"Embarrass me, in front of my friends." He shot a quick glance at Hermione who began a fascinated examination of her shoes, feeling uncomfortable in the uncharted territory of sibling bickering. An unpopular child at primary school, she was ignorant of the friendship etiquette that demanded she side not with the sibling who seemed to propound the most logical argument, but with the one who had invited her, the one she liked best. Her silence visibly deflated Ron.

"Oh get over yourself, you manage to do that perfectly well by yourself – why ruin a winning formula?" She rolled her eyes at Hermione, appealing for an ally, and let out a girlish giggle which was possibly even more infuriating than the bite contained in her words.

"Hermione's my friend, not yours. Why don't you clear off?" He squared up to her, his angry flushed face in stark contrast to her calculated expression of mock surprise.

"Come on, Ron, don't be silly," Hermione said, trying to appeal to his sensible side. Possibly attempting to negotiate a truce with an insult was not the preferred method of the UN Peace Corps, but then nobody chose Hermione Granger as a friend because they admired her skilful diplomacy. Likewise, Ronald Weasley's methodical logic was not one of his finer qualities.

"Oh, so now I'm silly, am I?" he retorted, turning on her angrily. "I can see my time's wasted here; she's already gone and brainwashed you. Well, I hope you'll be very happy, and you won't want me hanging around and spoiling your fun." He stormed off, in what may have been an impressive display of rage had he not immediately garrotted himself on a waist-high shop sign. He kicked it crossly before stalking down the street, startling several elderly ladies who waved their sticks menacingly at his rapidly retreating back.

"That Weasley boy," Hermione heard one of them mutter, "Always up to no good. Shifty little bugger. The youth of today!"

"Should we go after him?" Hermione bit her lip, staring at the flaming red dot that was Ron's head.

"Nah, he'll cool off by himself – eventually. He's just annoyed that I've cajoled you into coming out on a double date with me tonight."

"Why would he care? He's more than welcome to come to the pub too. I don't particularly want to go either."

Ginny rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Don't you know anything?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh never mind, I'll let you figure it out for yourself." Ginny smiled enigmatically, before steering Hermione toward the window display of an old-fashioned jewellery shop. "Ooh, isn't that brooch beautiful? Wish I had someone to buy me one."

Hermione stared for a second at the Sapphire studded oval, conceding that, yes, it was very pretty, but didn't really merit longer than five seconds of her life spent gawking at it. Ginny, however, had moved onto the next display case and was squealing over some engagement rings.

"Speaking of which," Hermione frowned, "What are these guys we're meeting tonight like? Are they like us?"

"You mean, Wizards? Nah, they're as Muggle as you can get, but that doesn't mean they don't know how to have a fun time! I just wouldn't mention anything to do with school if I were you."

Hermione was horrified, mentally visualising someone wringing her brain as all her topics of conversation dried up. She wondered whether she should pick up a Muggle newspaper from the village newsagents, just to keep herself informed on the economic crisis in Chile. But no, even that wouldn't do. She needed to think like a teenager for once. She tried emptying her mind of all logical thought and focusing on popular culture. Yet consecutive months spent at Hogwarts meant that she didn't have a clue who was the bookies favourite to win Pop Idol, or even which soap star was currently flaunting their adultery on the front pages of all the TV guides.

"But –but, what will we talk about?"

"Who said anything about talking?" Ginny winked.

Mrs. Weasley had a delicious spread waiting for them when they got back, by which time Ron had calmed down enough to issue a muttered apology to Hermione, although he did throw a thoroughly dirty look in Ginny's direction as soon as Hermione's back was turned.

"Now you three sit down while we wait for the others." Mrs. Weasley herded them over to the kitchen table, fussing over Hermione as she strategically placed her in the seat next to Ron and away from Ginny. "Goodness me!" she exclaimed suddenly as the door opened to admit the dripping form of Mr. Weasley, robes plastered to his skin. He grinned, a pleasant expression on his red, frost-bitten face.

"I tell you, it's murder out there!" He took his hat off and tipped off the excess snow onto the doormat.

"Ooh, go and sit by the fire, Arthur." Mrs. Weasley scurried over to her husband and began brushing the melting snow from his robes. "Sit down, sit down!" She peeled the travelling cloak from his back and pushed him into the rocking chair by the fire.

"How was work dad?" Ginny said eagerly, twisting round in her chair to face her father.

"Well, Ginny, not one of my more exciting days. I had to spend all afternoon in one of those Muggle super duper markets – amazing places really, you could get lost in them! Well, I did in fact, wandering round the dairy section for hours… but anyway, some mischievous imp had transfigured all the shopping trolleys – couldn't have all those Muggles pushing around trolleys that had minds of their own! I feel quite drained."

"There, there, dear. We'll just wait till Fred and George arrive and then I can serve up some dinner," Mrs. Weasley smiled as she began laying plates on the table with a clatter.

There were two loud clicks.

"Did you call, mother?"

"Merlin's beard, you gave me the fright of my life!" Mrs. Weasley clutched her hand to her chest as she scolded her son. "How many times have I told you not to Apparate into the house?"

"Sorry, mum, couldn't resist." Fred grinned.

"We heard you from the door," George explained.

"Thought we'd save you the trouble of getting up."

"What, by flooring me with a heart attack? Come on, away with you, sit down at the table now." She shooed them over to their seats. Fred grinned at Ginny as he sat down opposite her, scraping his chair across the flagstones. George sat down quietly opposite Hermione, fastidiously rearranging his cutlery as he avoided her eye. She sprang back as his knees brushed against her own, blushing and crossing her legs neatly under her chair, leaving him space to stretch his own long ones out in the space between.

The meal progressed cheerily, with plenty of laughter and friendly banter between the Weasleys. Hermione smiled, just content with being a silent observer. Even Ron perked up, spooning the hot Irish stew enthusiastically into his mouth while Mr. Weasley regaled them all with further tales of his exploits at the Ministry of Magic. Only George seemed to be uncharacteristically quiet, leaving his twin to do most of the talking while he played the role of occasional echo. Hermione looked covertly at him from under her fringe, gazing at the top of his lowered head. She noticed that he had barely touched his dinner, yet was stirring his spoon so intently that he looked as though he were digging for buried treasure. She fought the urge to slap his hand away out of sheer irritance just as he looked up and caught her staring at him. She looked away quickly.

"…do you, Hermione?" Mrs. Weasley's voice broke through her reverie as she found six pairs of eyes suddenly focused on her.

"Er, sorry, what was that, Molly?" Hermione asked quietly.

"I was just saying to Ginny, you don't really want to go out in this weather, do you? I don't think she should be dragging you out to the village in weather like this. Better off staying at home."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Mu-um!"

"No, it's fine. I'm looking forward to it." Hermione lied quickly, for the sake of her friendship.

"Well, I want the boys going with you. Not having you going out in the dark by yourselves."

"No way, mum, they'll embarrass me!" Ginny whined, while Ron sat up in his chair a little straighter.

"Well, now you mention it, Gin, we do have a new product that needs testing on some unsuspecting Muggles," George grinned.

"You'll do no such thing! Will they, Arthur?" Mrs. Weasley said oppressively, turning to her husband for confirmation.

"Of course not," he said stoutly, although George and Fred were already exchanging significant glances by this point.

Hermione had no idea what they had in mind, but their pockets seemed suspiciously bulky as they walked into the village an hour later. It was still snowing, and so overcast that there was little chance for the moon to fight through the heavy clouds in the starless sky. Ron walked ahead, evidently still sulking as he kicked irritably at a snowdrift. His back was now dotted with round wet patches, courtesy of Fred and George. Hermione had tried to walk with him but he had muttered something angrily about her not needing to bother pretending and strode off ahead of her again. She wished the twins would stop throwing snowballs at him. The humour had worn off long ago – if it had ever been present for Ron – yet they still persisted with their merciless teasing. She watched as George pulled back the bough to a roadside tree, then let is spring back, catapulting snow all over Ron. He stopped for the smallest fraction of a second, shook himself, then carried on walking regardless. George sniggered.

"For God's sake!" Hermione snapped, finally losing her temper. "It wasn't particularly funny the first time, and it certainly isn't after the hundredth. Why don't you just grow up?"

Fred and Ginny exchanged smirks, before scarpering from the imminent explosion. Neither of them were stupid enough to hang around during one of Hermione's moments of rage. They ran to catch up with Ron, who was pleasantly surprised by their sudden conciliatory appearance.

"Lighten up, Herm, it's only a bit of fun."

"Fun? I bet that's what Draco says when he tries to justify his bullying."

"Hey," he frowned, "No need for that. You don't need to be so prissy now, we're not in school anymore."

"Yeah, well maybe you'd like a taste of your own medicine," she growled, scooping up a ball of snow and charging at him as she squashed it into his face.

His eyes widened in surprise, taking in the wild appearance of a girl whom he had always considered unnaturally restrained. Her hair was splayed around her face in tangled curls, her cheeks flushed with rosy colour, and her teeth bared with perceptible hostility. But it was her eyes he found his gaze drawn to; two blazing orbs that seemed alight with a pulsing hatred.

"Hey," he said softly, taking her wrists in his hands.

"Don't you 'hey' me!" she screamed, pulling her wrists free. "You think you can just push Ron around, however you want, treat him like an little kid. Well it's you who's the little kid."

George was angry now, the joking glint in his eye extinguished. But when he spoke it was with a careful deliberateness.

"Don't presume to pry into our family and tell me how to treat my little brother just because you've been in our house for five minutes. You don't know anything."

His quiet hurt seemed to affect Hermione in a way that none of Ron or Harry's hot-collared shouting ever could.

"Well… I…" she stuttered, suddenly realising that she was completely out of order and had just screamed like a Banshee at her best friend's brother. "I'm sorry George, I just…"

"Oh no you don't," he said sternly, furrowing his eyebrows. Hermione flinched, waiting for the onslaught. She should have known that it would take more than a mumbled half-apology to make up for what she had just said – and done. "You don't get out of a snowball fight that easily." He bent down and packed a handful of snow between his gloved hands, before spinning round and throwing it slightly off-target so that it broke against her left shoulder.

Hermione giggled, the situation suddenly diffused, and returned fire with George. He was surprised by her accuracy as she reeled off continuous snowballs into his head.

"Hey, you should have been a Chaser!" he said as he shook her last effort from his hair.

"And you shouldn't!" she shot back cheekily as his snowball bounced harmlessly off her elbow. For some reason, he hadn't managed to get her above the neck once yet.

"Aren't you supposed to be on a hot date tonight? Should I ease up on the old snowballs?" he shouted, even as he hurled his next one toward her.

She dodged lithely out of the way, before expertly hitting her target.

"Not really, just been dragged along by Ginny. Can't imagine anything more arse-numbingly boring to be honest."

George laughed. "Well I'd always thought that you and Ron-"

"Will you two hurry up!" Fred interrupted, retracing his earlier footprints and running back to them. "Ginny's sent me back to check whether you'd done an Oats and wandered off."

They jogged to catch up with Ron and Ginny, Hermione guiltily noting Ginny's impatient scowl when she greeted them.

"Honestly, Hermione, look at your hair. It looks like you dried it in a cyclone." She fingered the other girl's hair distastefully.

"Leave her alone, Gin. She agreed to come with you, didn't she?" Ron said irritably, silencing his younger sister with his sharp tone. He was fed up with all the family bickering. He'd thought his family would at least pretend to be normal if he brought a guest home with him. Instead, they'd got even worse, if anything. Ginny seemed to have taken the addition of another female teenager to the house as an excuse to give free reign to her previously suppressed femininity; Fred was playing ever more ingenious practical jokes, as though trying to prove something to the self-confessed accademic Hermione; while George seemed to have retreated into sulky silence at the unwelcome visitor cramping his style. All of which conspired to put him in a stinking bad mood.

He pushed past Fred roughly and swung open the door to The Rose and Crown. Fred shrugged his shoulders and traipsed in after him, followed by Ginny, George and Hermione. She entered the bar tentatively, intimidated by the bustling atmosphere. It was packed to the rafters with drinking locals smiling, laughing and eyeing up the newcomers. She slid behind George, using his bulk as a barrier, until Ginny grabbed her hand and took it in her own little one.

"This way 'Mione. Mum may have forced them to escort us here, but there's no way we're sitting together while they suddenly decide to do the protective older brother act."

Hermione allowed herself to be led through the bewildering warren of passageways and side rooms.

"Here we are." Ginny smiled pleasantly as they entered a large mock-Tudor room, complete with obligatory Queen Elizabeth I portrait. Hermione, remembering her History of Magic lessons only too well, shuddered. "Finbar, meet Hermione. Hermione, Finbar."

She knew it had been a bad sign when Finbar had requested that she allow him to call her 'Herm', and he soon proved that multisyllabic words in general were a problem for him. Not that her frosty silence really mattered - if anything, Finbar seemed to interpret it as a welcome invitation to set off on a voyage of serial monologues on topics as diverse and unrelated as car mechanics, nuances of the offside rule and the comparative guitar skills of Eric Clapton versus Jimmy Hendrix. Hermione had complained of as much when Ginny dragged her off to accompany her to the toilet for a half-time break and analysis.

"Oh, just make the most of it then. If he's paying, drink up," she had replied archly, moments after smugly confessing that things were going great with Seth. Hermione had thought it pretty useless advice at the time, but once Finbar got onto the seemingly inexhaustible subject of the Football Cup she began to feel almost homesick for Ron and Harry's endless Quidditch talk – or at least her prerogative to tell them to shut up when she got bored. Her next drink was distinctly alcoholic. And her next. Until their table became littered with their joint effort of empty glasses and bottles.

She rose suddenly, wobbling uncertainly as the alcohol rushed to her head.

"Oops," she giggled as she tottered over and fell into Finbar's lap.

"No problem, darling. Where you off to then?"

"Just getting some fresh air," she said truthfully, suddenly feeling flushed in the stuffy room.

"Oh, I see." He winked knowingly. "Shall I come with you then?"

"I'm quite capable of finding my own way out, thank you very much," she replied haughtily, her attempt at dignity somewhat ruined when she got her shoe tangled in Ginny's stool and went flying onto the next table with a heavy thump. She brushed the cigarette ash from the front of her top as she muttered a mumbled apology to the surprised looking man, while Seth and Ginny burst into raucous laughter.

"Fine then, be all annoying and coupley while I wander off by myself," she muttered under her breath as she set off in search of the great outdoors.

After ten minutes of aimless searching for an elusive exit - during which time she was offered a seat, a drink and illegal drugs - she finally admitted defeat and turned back. Trouble was, she couldn't remember which direction back was in. She looked around the faces of the gurning locals with rising panic. Feeling a tap on her shoulder she whipped round defensively, only to find a smiling Weasley. She could have wept for joy. She opted for a grin instead, not wanting to overwhelm her saviour.

"You look a bit lost!"

"That's because I am, Fred," she beamed. "Need a compass and map in this place. Feel like I'm embarking on a gruelling expedition every time I need a pee. I'm surprised they don't hand out orange whistles and Kendal mint cake at the door." She was aware that she was babbling, but she was just so relieved to have found a familiar face.

"Date not going too well then?"

"You could say that," she answered grimly.

"Come and sit with us then. It'd stop Ron from leaping up like a yo-yo to go to check on you every five minutes."

"He's been spying on us?" Hermione said indignantly.

"Like a pro. His hitherto powers of surveillance are actually quite scary. Must remember to be more vigilante when we get back to The Burrow…"

Hermione followed Fred into the pokey room she remembered from their previous visit, causing Ron's face to instantly light up.

"'Mione!" he exclaimed.

"Date isn't going too well, so I said she could hide in here with us. Budge up, my son." Fred tapped a semi-comatose George on the behind with an empty bottle. "Had a bit too much to drink, methinks," he said in a whispered aside to Hermione.

George snorted, half-opened his eyes warily as he regarded Hermione coolly, before finally shuffling up so that she could squeeze herself onto the end of the bench. As soon as she was seated, however, he stretched back out, placing his feet unceremoniously in her lap. She shrugged; she'd rather have George's smelly feet than Finbar's smelly breath any day.

"Can I get you a drink, dear damsel in distress?" Fred addressed Hermione politely.

"Well, if you're offering…"

"She'll have an orange juice." Ron broke in. Hermione scowled. If there was one thing she hated, it was being told by someone else what she wanted – even if they were right.

"Yeah, I'll have an orange juice please," she smiled pleasantly, "Providing it comes with Vodka as standard."

"That's the Weasley spirit!" Fred grinned, as Ron scowled disapprovingly.

"I thought you didn't drink?" he hissed as soon as Fred had left.

"Says who? You know, I'm tired of everyone else defining me all the time. For once I'd just like to be me, and for people to accept me as such. Not Hermione the Muggle, or Hermione the class swot, or even Hermione Ron and Harry's friend, just Hermione."

"You go girl," George piped up, in a voice muffled by the arm draped theatrically across his face. He rolled over to face the wall, muttering something incomprehensible as his feet twisted in her lap. She suddenly noticed that one of his shoes was missing and that his other foot was encased in a lady's tartan slipper. A couple of days ago this would have perplexed her. Now she merely shrugged and returned her attention back to Ron.

"Well, if that's how you feel I'm going to find Ginny," he huffed, before standing up and attempting to stalk out – a gesture somewhat spoiled by the fact it took two frantic minutes of furniture rearrangement to escape from his chair.

Hermione stared in silence at the wall, wondering what she'd done wrong now. Ron was awfully touchy these days; she was starting to wonder if he was trying to channel Harry's spirit to make up for the fact that he had been unable to spend the Christmas holidays with them.

"What is his problem?" she muttered to herself.

"You." George spoke suddenly, causing Hermione to snap out of her reverie.

"Well thanks very much," she replied tartly.

"Not you personally, just you being here. Now let me explain something of male psychology…"

11


	4. Under the Covers

Chapter 4: Under the Covers

George managed to pull himself up into a slouched sitting position by swinging his feet back onto the floor.

"Now," he began, leaning closer to Hermione and propping his hands on the back of the bench as though trying to grip onto something steady. "The thing you gotta understand 'bout men, is they only realise they want something when they see that someone else wants it. Take me and my dear family, for instance. Nobody wanted that maggoty old chess set of Granddad's until Ron dusted it down a few years ago. All of a sudden there was claims and counter-claims of ownership stretching back centuries. That is, until Ron stormed off screaming that he didn't want the cruddy prehistoric thing anyway and we suddenly saw ourselves for the first time, squabbling over something that none of us really wanted. But we don't grow out of it, no, we just transfer this… possessiveness onto progressively larger and more precious objects. Which is where you come in."

"I do?" Hermione gulped, scanning George's face with an almost comical puzzlement.

"Yeah. You land slap bang in the middle of World Ron-happy-bloody-go-lucky-Weasley. You've set the cat among the pigeons, upset the apple cart, made hay not war – no wait… scratch that last one - but anyway, to cut to the chase, to make a long story short, to put a-"

"Will you stop talking in meaningless idioms?" Hermione interrupted, glowering at him from beneath her fringe as she folded her arms crossly. "You're talking in circles," she snapped, before scowling at her unintended irony.

"Apologies, dear lady; 'twas not my intention to perplex your good self." He took a mock bow, before continuing. "As I was saying - so eloquently, I believe - your brief sojourn here has occasioned a veritable transformation in Ronald's little heart. It pit pats to a different beat now, it pit pats to the beat of sweet lurve."

"What on Earth are you talking about?" Hermione said, slapping George's hand away irritably as he began beating out a disjointed rhythm on the back of the bench.

"Well, in the words of that renowned lyrical poet Donny Osmond, 'they called it puppy love' – oh yes, Ronald Weasley has finally realised that the great love of his life was under his nose all the time. Except, it's forbidden love, isn't it?"

"What, you don't mean…" Hermione gasped in shock, before hissing incredulously under her breath, "Ginny?"

George looked at her, dumbstruck for a second, before erupting into such violent laughter that the whole bench shook with the force of his mirth, causing Hermione to clutch onto the table for support. Every time she thought he had managed to compose himself he would look up at her and splutter into another fit of laughter.

"Aw, priceless!" he said finally, wiping a tear away from the corner of his eye. "I know Ottery St. Catchpole isn't exactly cosmopolitan, but it's not quite reached the stage where the only virgins are ugly twelve years olds who can run faster than their brothers. I was actually talking about you, you sick minded individual!"

"Me?" Hermione pointed a hand incredulously at herself.

"Oh come off it, I thought you were supposed to be the brains of the bunch."

"We're. Just. Good. Friends." Hermione growled between clenched teeth. She was used to justifying her friendship with Ron to the likes of Lavender Brown, but she had not expected George to start yet another speculation society on her non-existent love life.

"Oh sure, that's what Bert and Ernie said. Well, in their case it might have been true… but I digress. The point is-"

"That that bar is rampacked!" Fred broke in, placing Hermione's drink in front of her before sliding into the seat opposite George with a glum looking Ron trailing behind.

"Ginny told me to go away. Said I had a face like a slapped arse. Apparently that impacts on the success of her date," he explained sulkily.

Hermione stared at him, as though seeing him for the first time. Same flaming red hair as ever, same childlike blue eyes, same vivid freckles stretching in a band across the bridge of his long nose; same as always. Except. Except, if George was to be believed, behind that same old face there was a secret ambition, a secret desire. Yet when she looked into his eyes all she could see was the reflection of her own frightened face.

"You alright 'Mione, you look a bit peaky?" He frowned, leaning forward slightly.

Ron had noticed and acknowledged a female emotion. Someplace, an ice-skating excursion was being organised in Hell. George was right. The bastard. She kicked him roughly in the shin under the table, shooting a venomous glare at him. His eyes widened in shock and pain, before, biting his lip, he turned to her and shot a sickly sweet smile in her direction, eyes twinkling playfully.

They returned back to The Burrow in high spirits; Ginny gushing over her male companion, Ron keeping up an excited monologue about the trouble with Muggles, while Fred and George acted the part of travelling minstrels, singing slightly odd sounding Christmas Carols as they trundled down the deserted snow-covered lanes. Only Hermione seemed to notice the cold, huddling her gloved hands beneath each armpit as her teeth chattered painfully.

As soon as they arrived home she muttered a brief excuse to the Weasleys about not feeling very well before tiredly climbing the rickety staircase up to her room on the third floor. It was nice having a room to herself; if not slightly odd awakening each morning to find herself surrounded by Bill's assorted paraphernalia. Bored eyes stared down at her from peeling posters torn out of teenage magazines, a shrine to Bill Weasley's adolescent tastes. But she would rather be alone with his… unconventional taste than face the thought of conversing with another Weasley right now. How was she going to look Ron in the eye come the morning? Worse, would George tell Ron that she knew? Oh God, this was all too terrible.

Overwhelmed, she flopped onto the bed and buried her head in her hands, lacing her fingers through her hair in exasperation. It was not that she didn't like Ron – she loved him, but, without wanting to sound terribly hackneyed, she couldn't get around the fact that she loved him like a brother. How could someone with whom she had battled through giant chess sets and basilisks and deranged Death Eaters possibly hold any sexual attraction? Plus there was his whole predilection for knitted jumpers bearing his initials. Seemingly Mrs. Weasley didn't aim for the sexy angle when knitting her annual Christmas sweaters. Perhaps she was aiming for the runner-up prize of 'has a great sense of humour'. Which Ron did have. He was a nice boy. But what they had, it transcended such cheap nonsense. They knew each other too well. But now he had gone and ruined it, and it was hopeless, hopeless! She flung herself onto the bed and heaved great dry sobs, hiccuping as she tried to catch her breath. Harry needed his friends more than ever, yet here they were, about to be torn apart by some silly, trivial hormonal rift.

She awoke sometime later, unsure how long she had been lain curled on top of the bed clothes. The tingling sensation in her legs quickly crescendoed into sharp stabs that stretched every nerve in her body. She jumped out of bed and started pacing around the cluttered room, trying to work the pins and needles out of her feet. As the exquisite pinpricks became more insistent she threw Bill's old and worn dressing gown around herself and slowly crept down the stairs to the kitchen, hoping for a distracting glass of milk.

Bleary-eyed and limping she tiptoed into the kitchen, and was just about to walk toward the humming refrigerator when she noticed a figure slumped in the rocking chair beside the fire. Creeping closer, fearful of disturbing the prone Weasley, the dying embers of the fire suddenly caught two white orbs shining in the shadows of George's face. He was still awake then, and – she tiptoed closer – reading.

"You not tired?" she said quietly, approaching the hearth.

George perceptibly jumped, hastily tucking the book he had been looking at underneath his thigh. Really, she knew he thought he had an image to maintain but she was hardly going to shun him as a social pariah upon discovering him reading a book that didn't contain pictures.

"Er no, couldn't sleep."

"What's that you're reading then?" She pointed to a black corner that was protruding from the side of his leg.

"Nothing," he said, too quickly, his eyes travelling rapidly down to the visible edge of the book, then back to Hermione again.

"Well then, you won't mind me having a look at it, will you?" She had still not forgiven him for his earlier revelation, for shattering her idyll. Besides, what she had seen of his reading material had looked suspiciously like a diary; a slim, rectangular shape bound in crackly leather. Ginny was the only Weasley she had ever known to keep a diary and she felt she owed it to her friend to investigate her brother's intrusion. "Accio book!" It flew into her hand as George sank lower into the chair, his face turning a deep shade of crimson.

She had been right – it was a diary. Inscribed on the front in a gold copperplate type were the words 'Mine Thoughts of Consideration', followed below by two tiny initials composed of a flourishing 'D' and 'M'.

"George, is this what I think it is?" She frowned, hands trembling as she examined the cover of the diary more critically.

"Depends what you think it is. If you think it's a rare Peruvian nose flute, then I'd say no. If, however, you think it might just be the secret diary of Draco Malfoy, aged sixteen and three-quarters, then you could possibly be on the right track."

"Where on earth did it come from?" Hermione breathed, stepping closer to the slow-burning fire to better examine the artefact cradled in her hands.

"Let's just say that Malfoy can be very clumsy and George Weasley very dextrous. I mean, what kind of a fool parades a thing like that in their robe pocket through Diagon Alley – it's practically begging to be liberated."

"Have you… have you read it?" She swallowed hard, pressing the covers of the diary together with her forefinger and thumb, trying to resist the temptation to open it.

"Course I have – I think you'll find that morals and theft are usually two mutually exclusive qualities. He, erm, certainly has some interesting things to say," he paused briefly and swallowed hard, before continuing in a low voice, "About you."

"Oh I bet he does. But I can assure you I've heard it all before; about how I'm a dirty m-mudblood, and a disgrace to the Wizarding World. It would have been more gallant of you to have remained silent," she sniffed airily.

"Well, there are a few, erm, entries about muggleborns at Hogwarts. But that's not what I was referring to. There's some other stuff he writes in there, stuff about-"

"I don't want to know," Hermione interrupted, holding a hand up to stop him mid-flow. "I don't possess the sort of ego that enjoys hearing one's faults analysed by another."

"I'll take that back then, shall I?" George rose from the chair, sending it rocking wildly on the stone floor as he walked over to Hermione and stretched his hand out expectantly.

"No. I don't think you should have this." Cold, dark eyes regarded his own.

"Aw come on, Hermione, it's not your place to act as my conscience. I think acting as the voice of reason to one Weasley is task enough for you. But I don't owe you anything." Despite the level tone of his voice his eyes flashed dangerously.

"I'm not concerned about your morals – believe me, I didn't even know you were aware such things existed – I'm more worried about the inherent stupidity of stealing a Magical object from a notorious dark Wizard family. Particularly after our last experience with a Malfoy diary." Hermione said rather pointedly as George averted his eyes. "You can't keep this."

George looked up, sulking. "And why not?"

"Because it might upset little Malfoy junior." Despite the heavy sarcasm in her voice, George looked up hopefully. "No, you idiot," she snapped "Because it could have all sorts of sensors and defensive charms put on it. It's like bringing a ticking bomb into the house. A ticking bomb that can act as a secret surveillance system. I bet Lucius is practically rubbing his hands with glee; saved his hands from getting dirtied.

"Somehow I doubt that Draco has made him aware of the existence of this diary."

Hermione raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Let's just say that they're not exactly the smiling family on the Cornflakes packet."

"George, how much of this have you read?" She weighed the diary up in her hand, sensing the heaviness of compressed memories.

"Oh, only the good bits. There's this one bit where he's queuing up outside Snape's classroom and he hexes Harry good, but then…" he trailed off slowly, suddenly noting Hermione's discomfort. How could he be so insensitive; of course she wouldn't find getting her teeth hexed amusing. He could be so stupid at times – particularly around her.

"I don't think you should read anymore. I think I should keep this."

"You mean you want to read it too?" he shot back accusingly.

"No," Hermione replied frostily, shooting him a significant glance, "I mean I need time to think about how in the world I can get this back to Draco, without him noticing that it's missing in the first place.

Yet that was not the recurring thought that kept her dreams waiting and rest increasingly elusive. She had far more pressing thoughts on her mind as she lay tossing and turning in the unfamiliar bed. Like the fact that she couldn't face the thought of spending the rest of the holiday in Ron's company, pretending for all that time.

The next day she rose early, waking to the wintry sunlight streaming in through the skylight window above her bed. She dressed quickly, throwing on yesterday's jeans and a warm woolly jumper. She examined her reflection critically in the dusty mirror propped against the far wall of Bill's room next to a neutered guitar. She looked… practical; neither fussy nor drab. She was still a little too thin after her first term of applied N.E.W.T.s work, but her trousers sat rather nicely on the jutting angles of her hipbones, even if her face did look a little too stretched. Mrs. Weasley had stated it her mission to feed her up over Christmas, so she doubted that it was anything worth worrying too much about.

With a quick reassuring glance under her pillow at the stolen diary she pulled on her cosy slippers and padded down the stairs. She was just walking along the second floor landing when she felt a hand grab her own, pulling her into a dark, musty room.

George stood in his pyjama bottoms, smiling wanly. There were crease marks on his chest from the bed clothes, and the two rosy blotches on his cheeks made him look like a small, bed-weary toddler. He actually looked quite endearing with his crazy bed hair.

"Shh!" he hissed as he reached an arm behind her and closed the door, trapping her in the gloom.

"What is it?" she whispered back irritably, feeling around in the dark for the door handle. Disorientated, she felt her palms press against the warm surface of human flesh and realised with embarrassment that she was touching the Quidditch-toned pectoral muscles of Ron Weasley's older brother. She stepped back quickly, banging loudly into the door.

"Quiet – you'll have mum in here!" George hissed, pulling her away from the door and toward the centre of the room. "I just wanted to ask you if you'd decided what you were going to do with that thing I picked up in Diagon Alley."

"Not that it's any of your business, but I intend to give it back to its rightful owner," she sniffed, not having given a moments thought to what she was going to do with it at all.

"You can't do that! It's a waste. If you're not going to let me have any fun with it then the least you can do is put it to good use and hand it over to the Order of the Phoenix – it might have some useful information in it."

Hermione bit her lip; it had not occurred to her that the diary might contain anything more illuminating than adolescent angst. "I suppose that's a good suggestion. I'll give it to Molly." She made to leave the room, causing George to grab her around the upper arm. She felt his fingers dig painfully into her flesh and winced.

"Are you mad?" he hissed loudly, "She'd flay me alive! No, we have to hand it over to someone who wouldn't ask too many questions." He paused. "And good God you're skinny!" he exclaimed, suddenly aware that his hand had completely encircled her upper arm. He dropped his hand to his side.

"Yes, thank you for that assessment," she snapped back, before returning to consider their situation in silence. "Got it! Tonks. We can hand it to her to present to the rest of the Order. She won't ask any awkward questions about it."

"Good idea. And we only need to go to Grimmauld Place to track her down now that she's inherited it from Sirius. Maybe if we-" He broke off suddenly, straining as he heard the sound of creaking floorboards – a sound he easily identified as an attempt at stealth. "Mum! Quick, hide! She can't find you in my room at this time in the morning!" He ran over to his bed, dragging her behind him.

"Under the duvet!" he hissed, pushing her onto the bed and pulling the covers over her head before diving gymnastically onto the bed beside her, just in time as the door burst open. Hermione flattened herself against George's slim body, trying to give the illusion of a single figure in the bed. She dreaded to think how this would look if Mrs. Weasley noticed the sudden expansion in George's girth. This would be a foul way to repay her kindness with a betrayal of trust.

"Morning, George. Thought I heard voices," Mrs. Weasley said, the suspicion in her voice deflating as she surveyed the empty room.

Hermione could feel her heart beating rapidly against George's bare back as she pressed herself into him, feeling his body heat seep through her jumper. She curved her body around his own, hooking her legs behind his and placing an arm around his stomach to stop herself from rolling off the side. She cringed as his stomach muscles tensed under her touch – did he really find her that repulsive?

"Musta been talking in my sleep again," George replied cheerily.

Mrs. Weasley sniffed the air a couple of times, as though trying to detect a falsehood, before leaving the room and shutting the door tightly behind her. Hermione listened as her footsteps retreated down the stairs.

"Phew, close call!" George grinned, turning around to face Hermione. Her hand, still draped around his middle, fell onto the side of his hip. She liked the feel; lean and hard, as though housing a powerful strength. She'd always thought of George as a joker, never realised that physically he might have the potential to be a dangerous opponent.

"Yeah," she croaked, blushing as she felt his feet accidentally tangle in her own. She could feel sweat building up on the fingertips, but her burning hot hand refused to move. George wriggled down in the bed until he was face to face with Hermione, causing her hand to brush the length of his side as it came to rest on his chest. She could feel his heart thumping through his rib cage.

He stared at her impenetrably for a moment, an odd sort of look in his eye, before speaking very quickly. "We should – I should… I think it's time for breakfast." Yet he didn't move, just carried on looking at her with that same strange expression, his hand hovering over the small of her back.

She wasn't so thick-skinned that she didn't recognise a hint when she saw one – even from someone who was obviously trying to be nice about it. She kicked the covers off roughly, wondering what had come over her as she climbed clumsily out of the bed.

George watched her leave, shutting the door delicately behind herself. He could still feel her warmth clinging to the patch of bed she had lain on. Lowering his head to the pillow he smelt a sweet scent of autumnal leaves.

He Grinned. He certainly hadn't expected the first girl he lured into his bed to be Hermione Granger.

8


	5. The Unwelcome Visitors

Chapter 5: The Unwelcome Visitors

"What's up with you?" Ginny said as she poked Hermione in the ribs with the end of her spoon.

"What? Oh, nothing," Hermione sighed, idly stirring her porridge.

"Eat up, eat up!" Mrs. Weasley eyed Hermione's full bowl disapprovingly, before bustling over to the sink where she continued scrubbing at a stubborn food stain. "Where's Fred, still not up?"

"Honestly woman, you want your eyes testing. I'm only sat about two feet away," Fred huffed.

"Oh, sorry, dear, you know how confused I get between you and George first thing in the morning. I thought it wasn't like you to miss breakfast," she said kindly, before turning to face her daughter. "Ginny, will you go and fetch him, love?"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Why can't he get out of bed himself?"

"Because he's a man," Mrs. Weasley replied simply.

"Yeah, well what's he going to do when he doesn't have a little sister to roll him out of bed every morning?"

"Get a wife, no doubt," Mrs. Weasley replied without pause. Ginny sighed and began to climb the stairs wearily while Ron and Fred guffawed incredulously. "And what are you two sniggering about?" She turned on them.

"Your faith in George's matrimonial prospects," Fred explained. "We all know I'm the better looking twin. Funny how blinding a mother's love can be."

Mrs. Weasley frowned.

"Oh come off it, mum. If you're after losing a son and gaining a daughter I don't think George is your best bet. More likely to lose your patience and gain a permanent lodger," Ron said.

"Whatever do you mean? George is a lovely boy," Mrs. Weasley sniffed as Fred mimed flapping blinkers on the side of his head.

"Mum, he's nineteen years old and never had a girlfriend. His idea of a chat up line is squirting stink sap into someone's ear and explaining that his sense of humour is his best quality. I think we can safely presume an uninterrupted bachelorhood; he's certainly already well-versed in the lifestyle," Fred grinned.

"For God's sake," Hermione snapped. "Do you lot ever stop sniping at each other?"

Mrs Weasley opened her mouth in an 'o' of surprise before quietly leaving the room on the pretext of hanging some washing on the line outside. She smiled to herself, pleased that Hermione was using this opportunity to voice her disapproval over Ron's treatment at the hands of his brothers.

Fred appeared to seriously consider the question, looking thoughtfully into space. "I seem to recall that we called a truce back in the days of Christmas 1989 that lasted for a record eleven minutes and thirty-nine seconds, but other than that…" he trailed off, grinning sheepishly at Hermione. "Some people actually think truthfulness is a virtue."

"And some people recognise that there's a vital distinction between tact and lying," she shot back.

"Ooh, a Cornflakes philosopher. I must say, I do enjoy our early morning chats, Hermione," Fred said as he laid his spoon down against the edge of his bowl. "Your razor sharp observations on the world make such a pleasant change from the effortless monosyllabic exchanges of Ron and the aforementioned evil twin."

Hermione frowned, unsure whether he was making fun of her.

"Ron, do we have enough milk left?" Fred said, without taking his eyes of Hermione.

"Er… just what's in the carton," Ron replied automatically. "Not enough to drown a fly in, but plenty for a black coffee."

"No problem. Me and Hermione will just nip out and get some more. I'll show her where it's kept for future reference."

Hermione raised an eyebrow at Fred in surprise while his gaze remained steadily focused on her. Ron, evidently thinking there was nothing unusual about this arrangement, merely nodded distractedly as he continued trying to fish the free toy out from the bottom of the cereal packet.

Fred was just rising to leave the table when a strong hand clamped down on his shoulder as his twin entered the room.

"Don't worry, since I'm up, I'll go." George smiled amiably, although there was a tenacious look in his eyes.

"Right you are," Fred said evenly. Hermione looked from one to the other, confused. The tension she could detect between them seemed rather disproportionate to the disputed task of milk collection. But then everything in this family centred around factional politics – one could hardly sit down at a table without upsetting some ritualistic status quo. Hermione had felt as though she had committed a diplomatic blunder on par with one of Prince Phillip's finer moments when she had inadvertently made a cup of tea in George's 'I'm special' mug.

"Coming?" George turned around at the door, addressing Hermione impatiently. She looked to Ron for confirmation, but he had just grasped onto the edge of a foreign body amid the brittle cereal flakes and was preoccupied trying to carefully manoeuvre it out, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. Rolling her eyes she rose and followed George out into the garden.

He walked ahead of her down the garden path until they had left the house a considerable distance behind, when he stopped and turned to face her.

"I just wanted to make sure that you hadn't told Mum about the diary."

"I said I wouldn't, didn't I?" Hermione replied coldly, inexplicably annoyed. She supposed it explained his enthusiasm for milk collection.

"Yeah well words are cheap – lots of people let their mouths write cheques that their bodies can't cash."

"Well I'm not one of them. I mean what I say."

"You just don't say what you mean." George mumbled quietly, although his words carried perfectly in the still morning air.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Hermione huffed, placing her hands on her hips.

"Oh nothing," George said dismissively as he began striding down the garden path toward the front gate.

"And you're a fine one to talk!" Hermione shouted after him, running to catch up as he struggled with the rusty gate latch. "Hiding behind clever words and silly pranks, living half a life through your twin. Unless you really are that shallow. Although I for one don't believe that for one minute."

George looked taken aback. Not angry, as Hermione had expected, just stunned. He considered her words for a minute, juggling all the potential replies in his head, yet finding that none of them seemed quite appropriate.

"You listen too much, Hermione. You need to talk more," he said calmly.

She watched in silence as he slipped out of the gate and bent down to pick up a couple of milk cartons from a wooden box in the hedge. When he straightened up she saw that he was grinning.

"See what I mean?"

"It takes two to talk – one to speak, and one to listen," Hermione replied tartly. "And don't try to pigeon hole me as some poor, alienated soul. Just because I don't go around shooting my mouth off to anyone who'll listen it doesn't mean I don't have real friends who I can talk to."

"What, like Ron?" George shot back.

"Yes, like Ron!"

"Someone whose interests are less than platonic, someone who listens with his eyes half-closed?"

"Well it's better than talking to someone whose entire being is half-closed. Shouldn't Fred be interjecting at this point, saving you the trouble of entertaining an independent thought by speaking on your behalf?" Hermione said nastily.

George lowered the milk cartons in his arms, looking at Hermione thoughtfully.

"Hermione, one day I just might surprise you," he said, head cocked to one side as he regarded her carefully.

She felt herself going red, his easy amiability highlighting her harsh words. The truth was, he already had surprised her - on many accounts. She remembered back to this morning, feeling his surprisingly lean body pushed against her own, and felt an uncomfortable heat roll through her body. But a part of her couldn't hold back her sharp tongue, which seemed to spring so readily into action in his presence. There was something about him that put her on automatic defence, in a manner which none of the other Weasley family members could invoke. She felt… uncertain in his presence, as all intelligent conversation seemed to elude her.

George broke the mounting silence by reaching out and touching her arm, smiling gently. "Look, I'm going to take Malfoy's diary over to Tonks today. Will you cover for me and tell the others that I've gone into town-"

"-for a drink?" Hermione suggested sarcastically. "There's no way I'm trusting you to something like that by yourself. What's to stop you just telling me that you've handed it over to the Order of the Phoenix and keeping it for yourself?"

"Er, if I suggested Weasley code of honour would do you believe me?"

Hermione shook her head decisively, several loose curls swinging across her face. "Is that the code of honour I played witness to so often in school? No offence, but no thanks," she said, smiling as she lowered her head demurely.

"Aw, I'm not so bad – honest!" he joked, cuffing her awkwardly on the arm. Her flesh tingled where he had touched her with an uncomfortable prickling sensation that spread to her ribcage.

"So," Hermione said, suddenly turning serious again. "How are we going to get there?"

George felt himself withering under her keen gaze, as though all his layers were being peeled away. There was something about that enthusiastic sparkle, the same animation he had noticed when she was explaining something excitedly to an uncomprehending Ron, that was somehow infectious and enchanting. He supposed that was how she got Ron to follow where she led. And now he was succumbing to exactly the same ploy.

"Well – I – I guess I was going to Disapparate," George stuttered, raking a hand nervously through his tangled hair. Hermione fought the strange impulse to reach out and pat it down. She had been in Molly Weasley's house for too long. Her eyes remained fixed on a particularly unruly patch as he continued. "But obviously you haven't got a license yet. So I suppose we can travel by Floo Powder."

Hermione nodded. "That makes sense. If you tell Fred the plan, I'll think of a story to fob Ginny and Ron off with."

"Who said anything about Fred coming?" George frowned, quickly breaking eye contact and stalking back up to the house.

"Well, I just thought…"

"That I'm incapable of doing anything by myself?" he suggested bitterly. "Hermione, you're such an only child," he said, turning round to face her and looking her up and down measuredly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That you don't understand the importance of private possessions," he shouted over his shoulder as he re-entered the Weasley kitchen.

Hermione wanted to say more, but George had already sat himself down at the table and immediately been drawn into a heated debate between Fred and Mrs. Weasley about whether Pop Tarts constituted a healthy breakfast. She sat down opposite him and kicked him under the table, shooting him a meaningful look. He glanced at her quickly, mouthed 'later', and then jumped in to defend the nutritional worth of flavoured cardboard.

Hermione sighed, letting the conversation flow around her like a warm breeze as she stared contemplatively out of the window. What had George meant about private possessions – surely he can't have believed that strongly in the sanctity of such things if he had wantonly stolen another's diary? It was not his to covet. She realised that he was just like Harry; always running off and doing the opposite of what everyone else said, completely impossible to control or predict. Men.

A spirited mid-morning downpour meant that Hermione spent the rest of the morning in the Weasley kitchen drinking copious amounts of tea. When the clouds parted some time before midday Ginny popularly suggested walking into the village for lunch.

"Sorry, but I've got to go to Diagon Alley for some broom repair," George said authoritatively, shooting a quick side-ways glance at Hermione.

"Oh you can get some next time you go in," Ginny said, pouting and opening her eyes wide at George.

"No, I need to go while I remember."

"S'alright o senile one, I'll accompany you to make sure you don't get lost on the way and forget your name." Fred grinned, punching his twin playfully on the arm.

"No, no, it's alright. I don't mind going by myself."

"I'll go with George. I need to do some last minute Christmas shopping," Hermione said quickly, taking a step away from Ginny and Ron and toward George. He looked down at her and nodded slowly as she stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him, facing the potential opposition.

Fred looked quickly from one carefully composed face to the other. "Suit yourself, old boy. We'll see you later." With a wave he threw his old Gryffindor scarf around his neck and walked out of the back door, quickly followed by a skipping Ginny. Ron took one last baleful look at Hermione before following suit.

"Phew, that was relatively easy." Hermione smiled.

"Was it?" George turned to her angrily. "Couldn't you have made up an excuse for staying here, like not feeling well or something? Honestly, I thought you were supposed to be a clever Gryffindor."

Hermione frowned. "What's wrong with you?"

"Don't you think the others are going to be a bit suspicious about your sudden enthusiasm for my company?" he said, stalking angrily over to the coat stand by the back door.

"Er… no. You're Ron's brother," she said simply, staring at him wearily. She watched him struggle with his cloak, at first putting it on inside out and then getting his arm tangled in one of the slits. He patted down his hair irritably. Ah, so that was it. "Look, I'm sure being 'seen' with me isn't going to tarnish your precious reputation. It's not as if anyone would honestly think you'd entertain a lustful thought for a skinny know-it-all now, is it?"

His head shot up, and he looked at her quickly through narrowing eyes as he walked over to the fireplace where he stood with his arms folded impatiently, looking pointedly at the Floo Powder. Scowling, Hermione walked over and picked up a handful of the dry grains.

"_Twelve Grimmauld Place!" _she shouted, dropping the powder into the flames. Spinning around at an alarming speed she saw flashes of open grates pass before her until, nauseously dizzy, she was spat out into the kitchen at the other end. Steadying herself, she walked over to the nearest chair and flopped down, waiting for George to reappear. Sure enough, he span out a couple of minutes later, still scowling.

"Well?" he said irritably. "Have you called Tonks yet?"

Hermione had just opened her mouth to reply when she heard a stiff door handle being pulled and turned around to see the door leading to the hall fling open with considerable force. Framed against the dim light was a tall, forbidding man swathed in severe black robes. His jaw hardened as his cold eyes took in the two teenagers occupying the centre of the room.

"To what do we owe this pleasure?" Snape said coldly, sneering down his hooked nose.

"We're looking for Tonks," George said, taking a decisive step toward his ex-teacher.

"She is not in," Snape replied, looking from George to Hermione with growing disgust, as though examining two particularly gruesome specimens from Hagrid's pet collection.

There was a pause as Snape folded his arms confrontationally and George waited for him to continue. When he did not elaborate, he cleared his throat lightly. "Could you tell us where she is then, _Severus_?" he said, deliberately stressing his name.

Snape's eyes glittered dangerously, but unfortunately he could think of no rule that prohibited the use of forenames as a term of address. Yet his narrowed eyes left no doubt about his obvious disapproval and Hermione's sharp intake of breath served to emphasise George's daring.

"Nymphadora is engaged in work for the Order. As she is not expected back any time soon, I suggest you take yourselves, and your no doubt fascinating greetings, elsewhere."

George had just opened his mouth to reply when Hermione stood up and spoke uncertainly. "Please, Professor, perhaps you could help us?"

He looked at her disdainfully, as though wishing he were in the more regulated environment of his Potions classroom where he could deduct points from Gryffindor for any irritating interruptions.

"I dare say I can," he said tight-lipped.

Hermione stepped past George and walked toward Snape purposefully, causing him to take a hasty step backwards.

"It's just-"

"We don't know what to get Lupin for Christmas," George broke in, yanking Hermione to his side by the wrist. She looked up at him angrily and tried to discretely tug his hand away, but his grip was too strong and his fingernails dug warningly into her flesh.

Snape looked from one to another with mounting disgust, sneering unpleasantly. He made to leave the room, until, seeming to change his mind, he turned around to address them. "Perhaps we could all benefit if you brought him a leash," he said nastily, attempting a cruel smile before sweeping from the room and shutting the door oppressively behind him.

"Why didn't you let me tell him?" Hermione hissed as soon as he was gone.

"Oh I'm sure he'd just love that – a Weasley handing him a stolen Malfoy diary. He'd think Christmas had come early."

Hermione considered his words. "But what are we going to do about Tonks?"

"We wait," George said decisively. "She can't be gone that long, and since we've been invited to Christmas Eve drinks here we'll at least see her then."

"I suppose," Hermione said reluctantly, lowering her gaze to her feet. George's hand squeezed convulsively, suddenly making her aware that it was still wrapped around her wrist. Now, as she felt the heat seep through her skin and travel up her arm, flesh goosepimpling in reaction, she wondered how she could have failed to notice. She looked up to find two blue eyes looking intensely into her own. "I-erm…" She cleared her throat, trying to dissipate the growing tension, and looked at him pleadingly, willing him to use some of his famous Weasley patter to fill the awkward silence. She wasn't very good in such situations, horribly aware of her social ineptness; she relied on people like George to take the reins of conversation.

Yet he merely continued staring dumbly at her, unable to move, never mind speak. His mind had been telling him to release her wrist for the last few minutes, but his body kept finding excuses. He didn't even know why he wanted to hold on; why even the thought of letting go seemed like a painful wrench. He could feel the hairs on the back of her wrist prickling, her pulse hammering against his hyper-sensitive fingers. Was he… scaring her? He looked into her wide eyes, sensing fear, yes, but also something else; something that he had never seen there before, that he couldn't place. He tried to let go of her wrist, but his hand merely travelled up her arm, slowly stroking the tender flesh of her inner arm.

Hermione jolted upright. Was… was George coming on to her? The idea seemed laughable, yet, looking up into his softened, scared eyes, she detected an uncertainty that George Weasley the class clown had certainly never exhibited in the Gryffindor common room. And his fingers, roughened at the tips through countless experiments, were trailing delightfully up her arm with a maddeningly light touch. She had had to take the initiative with Viktor, yet this situation was riskier, less certain. It was up to George to steer the course.

Quite unsure what he was doing, but emboldened by the unmistakable signs of response in Hermione's flushed face, George slowly threaded his other arm behind her, resting his hand awkwardly on the small of her back. She stiffened, then arched her back under his touch, thrusting her body reflexively toward him in an alluring 's' shape. Suddenly, he pulled her clumsily toward him, breathing heavily as he lowered his lips onto her upturned face. She bristled as his lips pressed roughly onto her own and forced them apart, so that his tongue probed searchingly into her mouth. Placing her hands tentatively around his warm neck she returned his kiss gently, encouraging him to lessen the pressure on her lips. Learning quickly he slowed, easing as he began to enjoy the taste and feel of his first kiss. It was like falling into warm treacle, sinking into the embrace of female curves. So this was what Fred had been talking about!

'_Not Bad_,' Hermione thought to herself, '_Not bad at all._' Kissing Viktor had felt so mechanical – perfectly pleasurable, but not like this dizzy restlessness that rushed to her head like champagne bubbles. There was something about George's obvious tentativeness that was terribly endearing.

Noting his growing confidence, she decided to step it up a gear and pressed herself into him, deepening the kiss as she began grinding insistently against him. He returned her kiss hungrily, and, as though suddenly aware that he possessed a pair of hands, began running them up her sides. In response, she lowered her hands from around his neck and ran them over his chest, purring appreciatively into his mouth. She was just tracing them toward his navel when he pulled away suddenly, gasping as he gripped her around the upper arms.

"Sorry," he panted. "I'm sorry, Hermione," he repeated, eyes lowering in his flushed face.

10


	6. A Stolen Kiss

Chapter 6: A Stolen Kiss 

Hermione stared at George's retreating back, watched as the green flames swallowed him whole. She looked slowly around the room, then blinked suddenly, bringing the world back into focus.

What on earth had that been all about? George… George had kissed her, and she had kissed him back, gleefully. She touched a finger up to her lips, tracing the moistness. And then… and then he had fled, run off, without so much as a muttered explanation. God, was she really that bad a kisser? No, no she wasn't. She knew she was a good kisser, nothing wrong at her end.

Clenching her fists with new resolve she stepped into the grate where George had stood moments before and shouted "The Burrow!" angrily into the empty space, feeling the words reverberate around her head as she span back into the Weasley house. Spotting the back of a ginger head, she strode forward purposefully and tapped George sharply on the shoulder.

"What the hell was that all about?" she spat angrily as he turned around, facing her with shocked blue eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"What do you mean, what do I mean?" she shrieked, brushing a strand of hair impatiently out of her eyes. "You kiss me and then just… just run off? Ten out of ten for emotional maturity. God, and I thought you were different from those idiotic brothers of yours."

To Hermione's immense irritance, George merely raised his bowed head and issued a knowing smirk. "Maybe… maybe George is different."

Hermione frowned, worried at the state of mind of someone who freaked out over physical intimacy and then referred to themselves in the third person. It was like courting a Windsor. She was about to say as much when he grabbed her around the shoulders and pulled her confidently towards him, planting two warm lips onto her own flushed pair. She felt the heat sear through her as he kissed her violently, forcing her lips apart. Her anger, now mixed with some other alien emotion, swirled confusingly close to the surface, fighting a battle of dominance. Yet before she could attempt to order her feelings George pulled away suddenly, sparkling eyes scanning her face excitedly before he leaned in slowly, his breath tickling tantalisingly against her nose. He lowered his face closer still, then slowly, gently, traced her teeth with his tongue, sending a delicious tingling through her body. His hands rose, cupping her face with his palms as his long fingers wove into her hair. The kiss intensified, spreading through her body with a sexual power absent from their first embrace.

"Th-that… was lovely," Hermione breathed when he finally pulled his lips away. "Lovely," she repeated, smiling into his face as his eyes stared intently into her own.

"Hope you didn't want any sugar." Hermione sprang apart from George as a male voice penetrated their moment of serenity. She looked up as Fred entered holding two steaming mugs.

"Oh." Spying Hermione he stopped suddenly, turning a comical shade of red as a violent blush spread up from his neck.

"Nah, that's fine, mate." George took the proffered cup from his twin, and took a long, grateful sip.

"Sorry, I, erm, didn't know you were here," Fred mumbled to Hermione's left shoulder. "Would you, would you like a cuppa at all?"

"No, I'm fine thanks." Hermione looked from one face to another, easily distinguishable for once due to Fred's unexpected display of humility. "Thought you were going into the village?" Hermione stared challengingly at Fred, hoping that he'd get the hint and just buzz off so she could sink back into those glorious arms. Her eyes flicked momentarily back to George's full lips before she returned her glare to a bashful-looking Fred.

"I left my wallet behind," a voice behind her chirped. George's voice. Except… George hadn't gone into the village, Fred had…

"Fred?" She span around in confusion to face the man she had been kissing only moments before.

"Hermione." He grinned happily, flicking his tongue teasingly across his front teeth.

"You're – you're unbelievable!" Hermione looked from one freckled face to the other in exasperation.

"Why thank you. Pray, Hermione, be a dear and settle a long running argument. Now that you've tasted the delights of both worlds, who's the better kisser?"

Ignoring Fred, Hermione turned to George's horror-stricken face. He looked quickly from Fred's grinning expression to Hermione's pleading eyes, before leaving the room abruptly without a word. Hermione made to follow, but was stopped by Fred's steely grip around her upper arm.

"Don't bother," he said lazily.

"Let me go! Why do you have to be so bloody insensitive! It's all just a joke to you, isn't it?"

"Yes, and an unusually pleasant one," he murmured into her ear, running his free hand slowly down the nape of her neck before pulling both his hands back from her body and taking a distancing step backwards. His tone of voice changed accordingly. "Word to the wise; leave George alone. He can't cope with romantic entanglements."

"And I suppose you can?" Hermione spat back angrily, reduced to feeling like a rebellious twelve year old.

"Oh, I most certainly can, Hermione. But I won't have any old flit messing about with my twin."

"I'm not trying to mess George about!" she cried back, stung by the implications of his words.

" But you will, sooner or later, whether or not you set out with that intention. Find someone else to play your mind games over Ron with and not our brother."

Hermione spluttered incomprehensibly, trying but failing to find words to convey her indignation.

"I don't mean to be rude, Hermione, but just stay away, okay?" Fred said softly, following in his twin's footsteps and leaving Hermione by herself in the centre of the room.

Gah! It was so unfair! Why could nothing in her life just be simple? She liked a boy, a boy seemed to like her, they had kissed… yet instead of skipping off merrily into the sunset she gets duped by his evil left twin and then accused of being some sort of serial seductress. And why had George freaked out like that? She wanted to run after him, try to talk things through with him and tell him that she had only kissed Fred because she had thought that it was him. God, what must he think of her now? But there was no question of explaining herself to George, not when Fred was buzzing around him like an over-protective hornet.

She tried to catch his eye when the family sat down to dinner later on in the evening, but his gaze remained firmly fixed on his plate of barely-touched food. Even Ron noticed his uncharacteristically subdued behaviour.

"What's up with grumpy over there?" he addressed Fred through a mouthful of half-chewed food.

"Oh nothing, he's just thinking about some random rubbish," Fred replied cheerily, the bitter undertone indiscernible to everyone except Hermione, whom he fixed with a pointed stare as soon as Ron turned his attention to his water glass.

"Here, are you two going out tonight?" Ron asked after he had gulped down his drink.

"We're going back to our flat after dinner," Fred replied decisively.

"Well, we're not quite sure yet, we-" George stammered quietly, briefly looking up at Hermione with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Well, it's in the pipeline," Fred interrupted brusquely.

"Oh, you can't go yet, you've only just got here!" Ginny whined. "At least come out for a drink tonight first?"

"We really should be getting back, work to do…" Fred trailed off, a wistful look clouding his eyes for a second. "But are they still doing that special offer on Rector's Ale?" He leant forward, addressing Ginny keenly.

"Course they are, not many red-blooded males in the Muggle world seem to appreciate being seen propping up the bar with a pint of strawberry flavoured beer." Ginny winked.

"Lucky we have absolutely no standards then. As long as it's alcoholic and doesn't induce blindness – that's the family motto that we Weasley's live and – occasionally – die by."

Mrs. Weasley frowned disapprovingly at Fred. "Will you stop trying to corrupt my youngest born? I'd rather you didn't introduce your sister to any more bad habits."

"Mu-um! I'm not a baby anymore, stop mollycoddling me." Ginny pouted, appealing to her father with large, round eyes.

"Now, now, Molly. I thought we agreed not to treat our daughter any differently from the boys. If Ginny wants to go to the pub then she's old enough to decide for herself." Mr. Weasley admonished his wife, before shooting Ginny a twinkling smile. He wasn't one for favourites, but he did only have one daughter, and far too many sons to control. Ginny, ruthlessly aware of her father's sentimentality, exploited it for all it was worth.

"So, we'll all go for a drink after dinner? Then you can decide if you still want to make the arduous trek down to London." Ginny looked smugly around the table.

"Er, think I'll give it a miss tonight, Gin," Hermione mumbled. She didn't think she could face pretending to be a happy smiling member of the Brady Bunch tonight.

"Very sensible, Hermione," Mrs. Weasley said approvingly. "And I'm not sure Ginny should be going out by herself, just with the boys."

"That is so unfair! Dad, tell her it's unfair!" Ginny shrieked, appealing to her father once again. However, his wife had already beaten her to it with a piercing glare, causing him to sink lower into his chair as he attempted to avoid participation in the inevitable female conflict. "It's one rule for them and another for me, isn't it? You're so sexist!"

Hermione, trying to block out the unfamiliar bickering of family politics, was suddenly aware of something sharp digging insistently into her thigh. Slipping her hand discretely into her robe pocket she felt the unmistakable rectangular shape of Draco's diary. With all that had gone on today she had almost completely forgotten that she was supposed to be disposing of it. What she needed was to find Tonks, or at least find out when she would be back at Grimmauld Place. She couldn't risk returning there and bumping into Snape again; he would be able to sense falsehoods with considerably more skill than Mrs. Weasley.

Hermione had always been unnerved by his ability to forestall even his most devious students' plans without any apparent evidence, and Harry had been particularly vocal in the belief that Snape could read minds. It wasn't that Hermione believed such nonsense, but when she had found out that Snape was a skilled Legilimens… well, it had opened up some even more intrigueing questions about the hidden skills of Hogwart's resident Potions Master. She didn't want to risk running into him with no good explanation, a guilty expression streaked across her face and Draco Malfoy's diary tucked conveniently into her pocket. A small part of her inner self felt a thrill at the thought of locking horns with Severus Snape out of the constraints of Hogwarts, but an even bigger part – her common-sense – told her that there was no way she could win against such a dominating force, even on neutral territory.

Ron broke her out of her reverie with a well-aimed elbow in the ribs.

"Are you sure you don't want to come out with us?"

"Quite sure," Hermione said decisively.

Truth be told, she was actually looking forward to a night in by herself. She found the all-seeing, all-knowing atmosphere of a large family entirely endearing, but also claustrophobic. Usually she had her schoolwork to immerse herself in when she needed some solitary time by herself, but there was no such luxury to be had during the school holidays.

First she ran a hot bath and sank blissfully beneath the bubbles, feeling the immediacy of her troubles wash away. It was only when the regular top-ups of boiling water ran out that she reluctantly emptied the water away, much to the relief of the returned Weasley clan. She dried slowly, relishing the clean, tingly feeling of her salmon pink skin, before shrugging herself into a fluffy dressing robe. Feeling considerably better, she returned to her room and arranged herself elegantly on the small squishy bed, trying to decide what to read. She had only brought Hogwarts' textbooks with her, hoping that she would get some valuable revision done. Yet now, shining like a new penny, the pull of Grade 6 Transfiguration seemed much less forceful.

She rose from the bed and walked around Bill's small room, trying to locate some reading matter. However, the only thing she succeeded in uncovering was an empty chocolate frog wrapper, whose nutritional information table was not quite as riveting as she had hoped. Sighing, she flopped back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.

She was going mad. She had kissed two of Ron's brothers today. Rolling over she scanned the room frantically for something – anything – to read, to let her mind drift away into a fictitious world. She was just about to roll onto her back again when she suddenly remembered the slim, exotic book cosseted in her robe pocket. Draco's diary would certainly succeed in diverting her own thoughts. She got up and walked over to the chair she had draped her robes over, searching through the pockets until she located a hard, rectangular object.

Drawing out the leather-bound book she traced her finger slowly over the monogrammed initials, feeling a strange crackle jolt through her fingertips. It held a pulsing kind of beauty; something innately compulsive that dilated her pupils and quickened her breath. If she just looked at the first couple of pages, there couldn't be much harm in that, couldn't be anything too revealing. Trembling, she inserted her thumb tentatively into the crisp leaves, feeling it slot deliciously among the first few pages.

There was a sharp knock at the door.

What had she been thinking? She had been so close to trespassing on someone else's most private thoughts. She withdrew her thumb quickly, dropping the diary back into her robe pocket in self-disgust.

"Hang on a second!" she trilled as she struggled with the crudely fitted bolt. Muttering as she caught a fingernail on the rough edges, she opened the door to reveal a tall imposing figure, hidden in the shadows of the attic floor.

"Quick, let me in! Before someone sees!" he commanded, barging his way into the room and closing the door gently behind him.

Hermione looked in apprehension at the twin, unconsciously pulling the dressing robe tighter around her body. She waited for him to speak first and state the purpose of his nocturnal visit.

The silence lengthened. Hermione stared blankly at the twin staring down at his feet, until at last he coughed nervously and raised his head to Hermione's level.

"I, erm, just wanted to know if you still had the diary."

It had to be George. Fred didn't know about Draco's diary and George had seemed fairly adamant at keeping it that way when she had last raised the subject. She wasn't sure which twin she would have preferred –Fred was infinitely more annoying and hurtful, but at least she could use anger as a weapon, rather than mutual embarrassment.

"Yes," Hermione replied tight lipped, folding her arms protectively over her chest.

"Could I have it back please?" It was less a question than a tired statement.

Hermione startled him out of his emotionless state with the firmness of her answer. "No".

"Come on, Hermione," he pleaded gently. "Don't make our situation any more difficult than it already is."

"Me? Oh so it's all my fault now is it? I just forced myself onto you against your will?" Normally she was the sensible one, the peacemaker, but there was something about the atmosphere at The Burrow that freed her inner voice. Or at least something about the male Weasleys.

"Look, let's not talk about that," George sighed, raking a hand distractedly through his messy hair. "Can we just forget about it and pretend it never happened?"

"Why, so you can feel better about yourself for sweeping me under the carpet as just another one of your pathetic conquests? Get over yourself, I'm not going to be crying into my Cornflakes over a poorly executed romantic clinch with a gangly redhead." Hermione was one of those enviable souls whose anger facilitated eloquence, and there seemed to be an entire well of venom inside her, just waiting to escape every time she opened her mouth to address George.

"That's harsh, Hermione," George said quietly, walking past her and sinking down onto the bed. Hermione watched as he stared up at the ceiling, before placing his head in his hands and tugging his hair forcefully by the roots. She felt a huge pang of guilt, but also, if she was honest, a twisted sense of satisfaction over the impact of her words.

She hovered uncertainly over George, biting her tongue to cut off the torrent of slights and aggravations she wanted to add to his list of faults. She rarely got this angry with people, so angry that she wanted to see how much pain she could possibly inflict in order to break through their mantle of dignity. Now, finding herself in such a state, she almost wanted to savour the emotion, make the most of her heightened feeling. Not trusting herself to open her mouth, she continued to stare silently at the top of George's head.

After several slow minutes spent in mutual silence, George felt compelled to confess. Examining his large hands he spoke in a slow, controlled voice.

"I'm sorry to hear that's all you think of me, Hermione. I had hoped that we could at least be friends, but now I see that there's not even a possibility of that when you dislike me so intensely. It was never my intention to mislead you, but I'm new to all this. I've never felt so unsure and out of depth before as I did with you in Tonk's kitchen. I've-" George paused, closing his eyes and swallowing hard before continuing. "I've never kissed someone before." He looked up shyly at Hermione from underneath long lashes, waiting for the inevitable reaction of revulsion or laughter.

"Really?" Hermione ejaculated, jaw dropping in shock. She took a step closer, then slowly lowered herself onto the bed next to George, without taking her eyes away from him. "No way!" she finally exclaimed, looking at George in puzzlement

Surprised, but amused by her disbelief, George allowed himself a watery smile. "Is that really such a shock?"

"Well, I always assumed you were busy having it away left, right and centre at Hogwarts – Lord knows it wasn't work you were up to! I thought you were a proper little Romeo, always chasing after the girls and making them giggle."

"I just like making people laugh. I never really, you know, felt confident enough to approach the girl I liked. I have no problem talking to girls as honorary blokes, but when I like them I just fall to bits. And I have to like them, I don't believe in just going around kissing random people." George averted his gaze and began picking at a stray thread on the worn duvet cover.

"George," Hermione said softly, placing a warm hand on his bare forearm. "I do like you."

"Not as much as you like my twin. I know I have no right to be angry with you, but I just feel… foolish."

"George, listen to me," she pleaded, trying to catch his eye. "Sometimes what you see is only a snapshot of what's really going on. I only kissed Fred because – because I thought he was you. I never would have… ever!"

George looked up, a sad expression in his eyes. "You don't have to justify yourself, Hermione." He brushed her touch away and rose from the bed. "Look, I only came to tell you that we're going to Tonks' house on Wednesday, for her Christmas Eve party. We can hand the diary in then."

9


	7. Fight Club

Chapter 7 : Fight Club

Although he remained at The Burrow for the next few days, it felt obvious to Hermione that George was avoiding her, deliberately going out of his way to make sure that they never found themselves alone. Hermione desperately wanted to talk to him, remove the wary look from his eyes, but whenever she thought she had found a portal of opportunity Fred would invariably turn up, a self-satisfied smirk sitting comfortably on his face. And tonight the entire Weasley household were going to London to Tonk's Christmas Eve party, so there really would be little chance of monopolising George for a few chance moments.

Hermione lingered gloomily at the back as one by one various members of the Weasley family stepped into the fireplace and disappeared in a plume of green smoke. She didn't particularly feel like spending an evening in the pervading gloom of 12 Grimmauld Place, despite Tonk's various… home improvements. All those members of the Order of the Phoenix interrogating her accademic progress out of a bored sense of obligation, before turning to one of the older Weasleys for a laugh and a joke.

Sighing, she put her first foot forward, only to find her progress halted by a painful pincer grip around her upper arm. She spun around quickly, certain that she had been left alone in the house.

"Where is it?" the dark figure growled, squeezing her arm so tightly that a gasp of pain escaped from her lips. "Where is it, Granger?" the man repeated the question, a sharper edge of menace entering his voice as he took a step closer toward Hermione.

"I-I don't know what you're talking about," Hermione found herself stuttering as she struggled unsuccessfully to shrug off her assailants grip. She tried to look under the lip of the man's hood but his face was completely obscured by the long shadows. "What do you want? Who are you?"

The cloaked figure reached his left hand up to back of his head, pulling down the hood to reveal a face hard with determination. Grey eyes flashed in the light as Draco Malfoy surveyed Hermione's shocked reaction with sadistic satisfaction.

"The ghost of fucking Christmas past," Draco drawled nastily in reply as he folded his arms confrontationally.

"Draco, what are you doing here?" Hermione hissed, wondering how he even knew where the Weasleys lived – she was sure information on Ministry of Magic employees was supposed to be confidential.

"Don't play games with me, Granger. I know what you took in Diagon Alley and I want it back, you little mudblood thief. Give it to me now and I might just spare that pathetic excuse for a face when I hex you into oblivion."

"Oh yeah?" Hermione growled, whipping her wand out so fast it whistled through the air.

"Think you can take me on, do you?" Draco sneered, pulling his own slim wand out for combat. "Ha, soon wipe that smug look off your face. You may fool everyone else with all that book reading, but let's see how a mudblood copes doing real magic against a real wizard."

"I suppose I'll just have to wait a bit longer before I find out. But for now, I guess you'll do as target practice." Hermione quipped back, holding Draco's glare unwaveringly. "Let's take it outside."

"Sure, because we don't want to run the risk of despoiling all these precious Weasley artefacts." Draco sneered as he took in the macaroni pictures of Ginny's infancy and the dented cooking pots hanging by their handles from the ceiling. All the same, he turned sharply around and flung the kitchen door violently open.

Hermione followed behind, turning to face her opponent as she stepped out into the still night.

"Ready for annihilation, Granger?" Draco jeered.

Wordlessly Hermione turned and began counting to ten aloud as she strode forward, not quite sure she trusted the Malfonian counting system to end after the same number of steps.

"Ten!" She whipped round quickly, pointing the end of her wand tip straight at Malfoy's chest. "_Cocitas_!" A whoosh of red light shot out, only to be deflected by Draco's counter spell.

Surprised by the effective blocking of her curse, she didn't react fast enough to defend herself against Draco's next whoosh of blue light, and had to jump quickly out of the way as something cold swept uncomfortably close past her left ear.

"Oh, very clever," Draco sneered, "That's why all the worthless Hogwart's teachers love little miss perfect is it; she can dodge good?"

"No, but this might give you a better idea, '_Pentendium!_'"

But again, Hermione could only watch helplessly as Draco blocked her curse with perfect deflection. These were good hexes, ones they wouldn't even be studying till next year. How did he know how to block them every time?

As she stood wondering something heavy hit her hard in the chest, flinging her to the floor. A swirling kaleidoscope of purple threads danced across her eyes, her head spinning so fast she wondered whether she was going to be sick. She tried to get up, but even her head seemed to weigh more than her neck was able to support. Her limbs felt like lead, filled with a strange tingling sensation akin to pins and needles.

"How's that for starters?" Draco sneered, towering over Hermione's limp form with his wand pointed dangerously into her face. "_Accio wand_!"

Hermione felt the warm piece of wood fly out of her hand and, unable to sense any feeling in her limbs, watched impotently as Draco caught it neatly. He held it up to the moonlight, critically examining the smooth grains before pocketing it in his robes. Hermione's face coloured in outrage, feeling violated at Draco's breach of Duelling etiquette.

Draco squatted down, lowering his face so close to Hermione's that she could feel his breath tickling her cheek. She trembled, unsure what those cold grey eyes could be capable of.

"No Potter or half-wit Weasley to save you now." He spun his wand around loosely in his hand. "Now, what shall I do with a paralytic Granger, hmm? Oh, the possibilities."

Hermione's eyes widened in panic as she took in Draco's leering expression. She had to act; she had to somehow shake off his curse. Concentrating on the tiny tingling she could still detect in her left hand, she managed to move her fingers while Draco continued his sadistic soliloquy, oblivious. Slowly clenching and unclenching her fist, she felt feeling return into her sluggish hand.

"…maybe my father might be entertained by your current predicament."

Now was her chance. While Draco was distracted with his machinations Hermione suddenly reached up and grabbed hold of the end of his waving wand. Reflexively, Draco reasserted his grip, looking down in surprise at Hermione's free hand. He tugged violently at the base, then watched in horror as a sickening crunch split his wand in the middle.

"My wand!" he exclaimed in a choked voice, examining his jagged end of the snapped wand.

With the destruction of his wand, Hermione could feel the spell quickly wearing off.

"What have you done?" Draco moaned, still clutching the decapitated base.

Hermione sat up, clutching a hand to her spinning head. She turned to face Draco, almost feeling sorry for him when she saw his distraught expression. By channelling a Wizard's power the wand became part of the magic character, almost an extension of the Wizard himself. But then she quickly remembered what was hidden in his robe pocket, and she hardly expected him to hand it over after a polite request. She inched toward Draco, trying to figure out the best way to play him.

"My wand!" he repeated, this time looking up angrily into Hermione's soft eyes.

"Draco, I'm so sorry!" she said, wondering whether he would take a placatory hand on his arm. But then she was always better at words than actions. "I know – I know you probably don't believe me, but I would never, ever, break another Wizard's wand on purpose."

"Oh sure," he retorted, though with diminished force. "I suppose that's in the Granger code of conduct, is it?"

"Perhaps I could erm, buy you another one?" she said softly, looking up into his eyes simperingly, deciding to try playing the dumb female card – it certainly seemed to work for Pansy Parkinson.

"Don't be stupid!" he snapped, quickly switching from distraught Draco to aggressive Draco. Hermione bit her lip, realising that she had miscalculated him. "There was only one nine inch rowan wand with core of dragon eyelash in Ollivanders," he said gloomily, still staring at the shorn stump. Despite the damp seeping through the knees of his trousers he remained immobile.

Seeing her chance, Hermione lurched forward, diving onto Draco as her hands flew searchingly into his robes. She was sure she had seen him tuck it into his left pocket, yet all she could feel was the smooth lining of his robes and the contrasting warmth of his solid body. She carried on searching with mounting frustration, fingers running through his pockets and down his chest. But Draco merely lay back, staring at the stars as Hermione continued her thorough body search. Finally she stopped, banging her fists on his chest with frustrated resignation.

"Where's my wand?" she moaned, still sitting astride Draco.

"Carry on searching a bit longer and I might just tell you," Draco leered, lowering his eyes with obvious intent to Hermione's chest.

"You bastard!" she fumed, reaching forward to administer a sharp slap which Draco easily blocked. He took her wrists in his hands, gripping them restrainedly.

"Now, why don't you try asking nicely?" His eyes flashed dangerously, betraying his mocking, level voice.

"Why don't you go suck cock," Hermione retorted. "I hear it's your one redeeming feature, and it's certainly the only way we can think of to explain Snape's particular friendship."

"Such a charming, polite young lady. I can suddenly see the worth of muggle parenting after all. Now, if you try being nice you might just get better results."

"Where's my wand, Draco?"

"Where's my diary, Granger?" He raised an eyebrow quizzically, clearly enjoying toying with her.

On the one hand it was Draco's possession after all, but on the other hand it was possibly a Dark object which required confiscating. She wished George were here to give her the clear, straight opinion that she needed. As it was, she could do with more time to weigh up the moral argument versus the potential threat.

"How did you find me here?" she asked.

"One of the smartest features of my craftsmanship," Draco sneered, revelling in the opportunity to display his intellectual superiority. "I added a drop of my own blood to the charm so that if somebody else opened my diary it would detect the alien touch. That's how I knew you were the thief."

Well that wasn't so clever; Hermione was sure she could do it too if she read up on it. "Well I hate to break it to you but it seems to have malfunctioned along the way. George was the one who took your diary, he was the one who flicked through the pages. I only opened it once."

Draco frowned. "But if someone else had read it… the charm would have detected their blood?" he puzzled to himself.

A triumphant glint entered Hermione's eye and she started to laugh, laughing so hard that she flopped down on the grass again.

"What?" Draco said, half-annoyed, half-amused by this unexpected display of humour.

"It's-it's just," Hermione stammered, trying to catch her breath and control her mirth, "It's obvious, isn't it? I mean, somebody told me before that everyone in the wizarding world is related to each other somehow or other, and, well, you and George must be distant cousins or something!" Draco looked dumfounded. "Ever had any ginger babies in your family?" she giggled.

Draco patted his hair down grumpily. "Blondes have more fun." He pouted resolutely.

"So it's true? You knew about this?" Hermione dissolved into another fit of giggles, clutching her sides at this new nugget of information.

"Ok, don't wet yourself," Draco huffed as he plonked himself down cross-legged beside her. He began tearing chunks of grass out of the ground absent-mindedly, his pointed chin resting on his fist.

Hermione stopped laughing and surveyed him critically. He actually looked kind of beautiful sitting there in the moonlight, propped up like a grumpy pixie.

"You know, I think this is the first time I've ever seen Draco Malfoy look bashful," she smiled.

Draco looked up suddenly. "I'm not bashful, Malfoys never get embarrassed. But I'd just rather you didn't go around sharing that piece of information with everyone." His face suddenly clouded over again. "Or else I'll give you a memory hex so powerful you'll forget how to breathe."

But he didn't seem half so frightening without Crab and Goyle supporting him either side and a snapped wand laying dejectedly on the floor.

"Look, I'll do you a deal. I'll give you back your diary – it is yours after all, and I swear I had nothing to do with it being taken from you, and I didn't read any of it – and you can give me back my wand. And I can't promise anything, but it may be possible for me to fix your wand with a Transfiguration spell, since it was my wand which broke it. Deal?"

"This won't change anything in school, you know?" Draco looked up at her from lowered lids.

"I know," she sighed. "I know you hate Harry, and Harry hates you, and by association we hate each other, and it's not even personal anymore, it's all ancient history, symbolism and adult politics, but please, just for now, when there's no one else around, can we please behave like normal carefree teenagers – just a boy and a girl sitting around?"

Draco nodded slowly. "On the count of three we exchange." He placed his hand in his robes as Hermione fished in her pocket for the diary. "One – two…" Two pale hands stretched out toward each other, almost touching. Just the hand of a boy holding a slim wooden stick and the hand of a girl holding a book. "Three."

Yet things are never that simple in the real world. Hermione was not just a girl, in the same way that Draco could never be just a boy. As Draco's hand gripped onto the other end of the diary, at the precise moment Hermione grasped onto the other end of her wand, something unexpected happened.

"Wh-wh?" Was all Hermione could get out as they became engulfed in a pulsing orange-red light which seemed to lift them both off their feet and sent them spinning down, down, down into the depths of the earth; faster and faster, some powerful, irresistible force pulling the two of them together. She found she couldn't let go of the book or the wand, even as they heated in her hands to a scolding temperature. She tried to focus on Draco's face, pulled back and contorted by the g-force, but the light was too bright and she was forced to shut her eyes, wild patterns dancing on the insides of her eyelids.

Until suddenly it all stopped and they collapsed together onto the cool, still floor, gulping in the fresh night air like grounded fish. Hermione could feel Draco's heart pounding like a hammer through his ribcage where her head had fallen and his legs twitching underneath her own. When she finally got her breath back she rolled over, away from Draco and onto her back. Her eyes looked up to find a circle of night sky framed by tall, bowed pine trees.

"Where are we?" she said as she sat up, clutching her head. They appeared to be in some sort of forest glade.

Draco opened one eye cautiously, found that he was not dead, and opened the other to survey the scene. "What was that?"

"I don't know." Hermione bit her lip. "Do you think it could have been some sort of reaction from my wand?"

"You think?" Draco retorted sarcastically. "Do you have any control over your wand, at all?" he said nastily, since pretending to be just a boy and just a girl was blatantly a dumb idea.

"Oh, yeah, I have great control of my wand - when it's in someone else's hands!" she shot back, shooting him a patented Granger stare.

"Yes, because you wouldn't know anything about stealing other people's property at all, would you?"

"I've told you, I didn't take your stupid diary. Why would I want to read your constipated thoughts in my leisure time when I have to put up with enough of them at school? 'Ooh, Crab is so dreamy, but I can't decide whether I'd rather indulge in questionable homoerotocism with Goyle instead?'" she said in a falsetto imitation of Draco's voice. "'Or if I just prefer having my arse licked by brainless bimbo Pansy Parkinson?'"

Draco sneered. "Well at least now I can believe that you really didn't read my diary. You don't know me at all."

"Good, let's try to keep it that way. All I want is for me to get back to The Burrow and for us to get back to hating each other. And I'm not giving you your pathetic diary back until we're out of this mess."

"Fine." Draco's eyes flashed. "Then I'm not giving you your worthless wand back either." He tucked it neatly back inside his robes. "There. At least we agree on one thing. Now all we've got to do is find a suitable spot to Apparate out of."

"But - but, we haven't got Apparating licenses yet. We haven't even been started taking Apparating lessons," Hermione whined, trotting after Draco as he began stalking off toward the edge of the glade.

"Speak for yourself, Miss book smarts."

"But you're underage! It's against the law!" Hermione trilled as she raced to keep up with his long stride.

Draco stopped and whipped around to face her, so abruptly that she crashed into his side. "That's what makes it so much fun," he drawled, a dangerous glint in his eye.

"What. An. Idiot," she said to herself as she watched him loping off toward the tree line.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

"George! How's it hanging?" A clearly over-lubricated Tonks greeted him, with what was probably supposed to be an affectionate little punch on the arm but nigh floored him.

"What? Oh, yeah, really like what you've done to this place." George managed to snap his attention back to Tonks for long enough to return her greeting.

"Really? Because there were those who thought that pink leopard print walls might be a bit too, you know, cheerful," said Tonks, in the same tone of disbelief men had used to describe a moon landing 40 years ago. "I think even Severus has come to appreciate its benefits."

George glanced over to where the sour-looking man was standing in the corner listening boredly to an animated Kingsley Shacklebolt. He doubted very much whether Snape was capable of appreciating anything that wasn't dead and pickled.

"Yeah, what's that vampire doing here anyway? Hardly the embodiment of festive cheer." Ginny broke in, joining George and offering him a glass of white wine which he gladly received.

Tonks coloured. "Actually, I think he's kind of," She bent down and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Cute."

Which was as much encouragement as George needed to move on and exit the conversation. He didn't know why he was so restless, but something seemed to be missing; something was not quite right.

Mum and Dad were having a rare night away from the worries of the family nest and were chatting quite amiably with their friends. George had disappeared upstairs some time ago with one of Tonks' prettier friends. Ron was still gawping in fascination at one of Hagrid's new 'pets'. Ginny was always adept at conjuring up her own devious entertainment. And yet, something bothered him. If only he had more time to think what it was…

"George, Candida has a friend!" Fred hissed, pulling him reluctantly out of the room and up the stairs. Duty called.

9


	8. The Thing

Chapter 8: The Thing

Since 'Candida' was Alistair Moody's female alter-ego this really was a call of duty. There was nothing attractive about looking at a grizzled, middle-aged man with a horribly mutilated face dressed in drag.

"But look at the nose disguise!" Fred exclaimed excitedly as he circled admiringly around Mad-Eye Moody. "How did you do it; potion, charm, or transfiguration?"

Moody tapped his nose. "Neither. My special mixture. It's prosthetic," He proceeded to slowly peel off the false nose, revealing the misshapen stump that passed for his own. "Most important feature to get right if you want to pass yourself off as someone else. Nose gives it away every time."

"And you're-?" George turned to face Moody's blonde companion.

"Claudia Moonshine," she simpered, offering a gloved hand which George wisely chose to ignore. "Otherwise known as," She tugged off the blonde wig and long roman nose, revealing a plain looking brunette. "Special agent Z5. Now if you'll excuse us, we need to change out of our work clothes to go and join the party."

Fred and George allowed themselves to be ushered out of the attic room, still staring in wonder at the prosthetic nose.

"So, what do you reckon, old bean, is this going to fly off our shelves or what?" Fred said, the familiar entrepreneurial glint entering his eye.

"Think of the possibilities," George agreed, staring off into the distance "Every kid in Hogwarts is going to want one of these. Getting grief from your least favourite teacher? Just disguise yourself as the model student for the day."

"Or the teacher," Fred sniggered. "You know, I only wish we had had such well-meaning businessmen around when we were in school. We're practically-"

"- A community asset." George finished emphatically.

"Whose community ass is it?" Tonks slurred, staggering up to the twins and placing an arm around each of their shoulders. "Who are we talking about?"

"No one, we were just thinking of the marketing possibilities of our latest find," Fred said, struggling to keep Tonks propped up.

"Mad-Eye was just showing us his latest deception technique," George clarified.

"You know who I think has a nice ass?" she continued, as though neither had spoken. "But you can't really tell hidden behind all those billowing robes-"

"Please, for the sake of my sanity and all common taste do not fill in that blank." George pleaded.

"Severus Snape, Severus Snape!" Tonks shouted in a sing-song voice. "He can give me detention any day."

George and Fred looked at one another and grinned. Spotting the opportunity for mischief like a sixth sense they really didn't need such encouragement.

"You go and find the man of the moment and bring him up to the library while I try and sober her up a bit," Fred ordered, already walking Tonks around the landing.

"Gin, Gin," George pestered, tugging insistently on Ginny's sleeve after locating her in the kitchen.

"What?" She scowled, turning round to face her older brother. "I was in a conversation, you know?"

"Sorry," he said hurriedly, sounding wholly unapologetic. "Have you seen Snape anywhere?"

"Snape?" Her nose wrinkled in disgust. "What do you want him for? Try looking under a stone." she sneered, before turning back to her companion.

"Mum, have you seen Professor Snape anywhere?"

"I'm not sure where he's been all evening, love. I certainly haven't noticed him." Mrs. Weasley smiled kindly.

"I didn't even know he'd been invited," Kingsley Shacklebolt harrumphed.

Blimey. Who'd want to be this unpopular? People could say what they liked about him and Fred but at least they were noticed when they entered a room. There was a palpable difference, a presence. And then an absence when they withdrew. I guess it just went to show that you reaped what you sowed.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Hermione soon learnt that Draco was not the most chivalrous of walking companions. She had lost count of the times he had allowed a low hanging branch to swing back into her face without warning.

"I thought you were supposed to be a member of the sodding aristocracy." She scowled after ducking another flying bough.

"And that's exactly how I'm behaving. Mustn't let the peasants get ideas above their station."

"You are so lame," Hermione retorted half-heartedly. It had got to the point where they were both so saturated by mutual insults that they no longer meant anything, merely a ritual bantering they felt had to be kept up for the sake of morale, if not dignity. It was better than the alternative, the all-pervading gloom of the silent forest. "What are we supposed to be looking for anyway?"

"I just need to get some bearings, I can't Apparate until I can see where we are," Draco replied over his shoulder.

"Why can't we-" Hermione stopped as her foot caught on a tree root, propelling her forward. Clutching at thin air, her fingers found the back of Draco's robes which she grasped on to, filling her fists with the folds of the fabric. Draco lurched backwards, arms flailing, until he managed to balance himself on the dry floor.

"Careful!" he snapped as he brushed her hands disdainfully from his robes. "Don't touch the robes."

A sudden shrill sound broke the silence.

"What was that?" Draco trilled, a note of terror in his voice. "Did you hear that?" He grabbed onto Hermione, pulling her roughly toward him.

Hermione stood still, listening. And then she heard it again; a long, low note that could only mean one thing. She turned to face Draco. "Draco?"

"Please don't tell me we're in the Forbidden forest, please don't tell me we're in the Forbidden Forest," Draco repeated quickly to himself, as though willing it could make it happen.

The gravelly noise rumbled through the air again, perhaps closer. Draco's hands migrated to Hermione's sleeve where he clung like a drowning man.

"I don't think so," Hermione said quietly, remembering Draco's first encounter with Hogwart's forest in their second year. "Different vegetation." She felt safer with facts. Facts were solid, real and certain. All the same, she didn't shirk when Draco placed his hand in hers, squeezing it tightly.

"Is that what I think it is?" Draco whimpered, moving closer to Hermione's reassuring warmth.

Hermione looked up to the treetops where a chink in the tightly knit branches allowed a glimpse of the sky. It was still light, but rapidly approaching dusk. "It'll be dark soon," she said matter-of-factly, looking into Draco's saucer-sized eyes.

"Hermione, I'm scared of the dark."

Despite herself, Hermione gave his hand a little squeeze back. Their situation was too bizarre to do anything else, even if he probably deserved derision.

"We just have to keep walking. If we can find a way out or a safe place to Apparate we shouldn't have to worry. Come on." She started forward, gently loosening her hand from Draco's grip.

When they next stopped for a rest, the sky was already starting to take on an inky tinge as nightfall approached. Hermione sat down on a fallen tree trunk to readjust her pinching shoes while Draco paced impatiently on the ground in front of her.

"Come on, we can't afford to waste this time," Draco snapped. His incarnation as caring, sensitive Draco had seemingly lasted only as long as his fear, which had been allayed by the recent quiet.

"Look, we've been walking for hours. My shoes are slowly killing me from the feet up. Try and have some sympathy for the female predicament since it's you bastards who design these sodding things." She flung her left shoe off with anger, narrowly missing Draco's kneecaps.

"What kind of an idiot wears these things for walking?" Draco sneered, holding up the offending article by its buckle strap.

"Well sorry if I hadn't planned on taking an impromptu hike through a never-ending forest – silly me. Next time I'm on my way to a party I'll wear hiking boots shall I?"

Draco sniggered. "Who would invite you to a party? What was it, book study group for geeks?"

"If you must know it was a Christmas Eve party, and I would be having much more fun there if it wasn't for your stupid, irresponsible antics."

"You and me both," Draco muttered.

"Why, what were you doing that was so terribly important you felt the need to interrupt it with a bit of good old-fashioned bodily assault?"

Draco reddened and turned away. "Just leave it, okay?" he snapped, kicking at a small stone that flew threw the air and hit a nearby tree with a satisfying thunk. "It certainly wasn't no party," he said quietly, scuffing his feet along the leafy floor.

Hermione, deaf to this last utterance, ploughed on. "Who would invite you to a party for that matter? Not exactly life and soul, are we? What's Draco Malfoy going to do; stand around critiquing the décor and spitting out the canapés? You know, if you actually wiped that self-satisfied smirk off your face and stopped trying to find fault with everything you might actually have more fun."

"And if you stopped trying to fit everyone into your perfect safe little make-believe world you might actually get a dose of reality."

"Aw, poor little rich boy," Hermione teased, pulling a baby face. "Life must be so difficult in your big lonely mansion. My heart bleeds."

"You're just like all those other idiots. Money can't buy the important things in life; freedom, lo-" Draco stopped suddenly.

"Yeah, but it sure buys you more comfortable shoes!" Hermione shouted after his retreating back, before realising that he still had her other shoe and hopping quickly after him.

"The first thing I'll do when I get my new wand," Draco said as Hermione leant against a wide tree to put her shoe back on. "Is hex that mouth of yours shut."

"What, so you don't get shown up as a complete idiot in class?" Hermione said sweetly.

"Everyone knows I'm clever than you," Draco growled, "I just don't spend all my time swallowing text books."

"Yes because you're too busy swallowing-"

A low guttural noise pierced the still forest air, leaving Hermione's sentence lying forever unfinished in the Draco-shaped hole left where he had been standing only seconds before.

"Draco Malfoy, you come back right now!" Hermione screeched after him as she ran to catch up. "You will not leave me alone in this forest."

Credit where it was due, he was fast on his feet. Hermione may actually have admired his athletic prowess – if he hadn't been running in the opposite direction from her, away from a big bad monster. But then she had soon learnt at Hogwarts that those who were slow got left behind.

With one real spurt of speed, she raced up to Draco and exercised an impressive rugby tackle. Lunging onto his back, she circled her arms around his slim waist and pulled him down to the floor. They crashed onto the dry earth in a spray of dirt and leaves that momentarily obscured their writhing forms. Despite a quick resort to fists and feet, Hermione came out top by stint of her sharp elbows.

Sitting astride Draco, pinning his wrists down with her knees, she addressed him directly, leaning down into his dirt-smudged face. "Now you listen to me, mister. This is a joint thing. The two of us together, we might just manage to come out of this. I need your Apparating ability, and you need my Defence Against the Darks Arts skills. This isn't about Slytherin versus Gryffindor, this is about two Hogwarts students. Now are you with me, or do I have to make myself plainer?"

Draco swallowed the obvious response. She had a point. And in the worst case scenario he could always use her as a decoy while he ran. "Okay, okay, as long as you promise to stop using every excuse to straddle me. Jesus, anyone would think you were enjoying this."

Hermione went red, but stayed in position. "You promise you won't run off?"

"Yes, yes I promise," Draco sighed, trying to wriggle free from his constraints.

"Okay, then we have a deal." Hermione jumped up, offering Draco her hand.

He stared at it for a few seconds, before surprising both of them by accepting it as she pulled him up.

"But I'll need my wand," she said quickly.

"Then I'll need my diary."

"Maybe we should devise an alternative exchange system?" Hermione suggested tentatively.

"Oh surely not," Draco drawled sarcastically. "Last time was so much fun. Maybe this time we'll be really lucky and end up in shark-infested waters."

"Look, I'll place your diary here," Hermione bent down to place the book on the floor. "And you leave my wand next to it."

Despite his reservations, Draco did as he was told.

"Now, let's pick them up and see what happens." Hermione shut her eyes as her fingers closed around the familiar wooden stem, but there was no blinding flash of light and all remained as it was. "It worked! We're not… we're still here!" She looked around just to make sure.

Draco tucked his diary discretely into his robes. "Hermione," he said, two pink dots colouring his cheeks slightly. "How much of this did you read? Is that why you've been giving me such a hard time?"

"I didn't read anything, I-" she stopped as she saw the deeply sceptical look in his face. "Okay, I admit I was tempted, and that I even open the front cover, but it turned out that my conscience was stronger than some seedy curiosity after all."

"How… Gryffindor of you," Draco drawled, cocking his head to one side. "If it were me, I would have had no hesitation reading your most secret desires."

"I suppose you should at least be commended on your honesty." Hermione faltered. "Maybe – maybe it's not so clever keeping something like that."

"Why? It only contains thoughts anyone else could discern themselves, if they cared enough to observe." He shrugged.

"Whatever," Hermione said shortly, mindful of the passing time. "We better get going."

It still felt like a very surreal experience, plodding through a pine forest with Draco Malfoy, public enemy number one at school. In her heart of hearts, she couldn't help thinking that it would just be easier on all of them if Harry forgot his dangerous grudge and stayed out of Draco's way. She for one was tired of feeling as though she were entering a battle-ground every time she had a Potions lesson. She had almost forgotten that classrooms could be neutral territory where one came to learn rather than to defend.

"What's the deal with you and Harry?" she said finally, after several moments of silence.

"What do you mean?" Draco whipped around, practically snarling.

"Why are you always waiting for each other to fall down?"

"Stay out of it, Granger," he growled.

"I just mean, you can't enjoy constantly being on the offensive. I certainly don't enjoy getting caught in the crossfire." Hermione persevered.

"You don't have to," Draco said laconically. "You don't have to get carried along with the hype and always jump in to defend Hogwart's resident Wonderkid."

"He's my friend," Hermione said simply. "You stick up for your own."

"Whatever."

"You know," Draco piped up after a lengthy silence. "This is really weird for me."

Hermione looked inquisitively at his back, failing to detect any sarcasm. "It's not how I usually spend my free time either," she replied cautiously.

"No, not just that, I mean us. We've lived in the same place for five years, never really spoken to each other, and now we find ourselves here, alone together. Isn't that weird?" He turned around to face her, stopping so abruptly that she nearly ran into him. "Who'd have imagined Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy stranded alone together?"

Hermione wasn't quite sure what he was trying to get at – was he threatening her? She was just about to reply when a blood-curdling animal scream tore through the air and jolted her heart.

"Draco, look!"

Draco followed her finger up to the night sky and grimaced.

Another scream rippled out from among the forest trees.

"Is it just me, or is it getting closer?" Draco whimpered, still transfixed by the sight above his head.

"It's getting closer," Hermione whispered as another animal noise sounded closer still. "Run!"

Draco didn't need much encouragement, heedless of the scratching branches as he sprinted through the tightly knit trees behind Hermione. They charged forward, pursued by the approaching creature. But no matter how fast they ran they couldn't leave behind the chilling sound which was growing nearer and nearer.

"Draco, it's no good, we can't outrun it!" Hermione wheezed, pulling her wand out in front of her.

"Keep going!" he shouted, running past her, twigs snapping, leaves flying up.

But it was too late. In front of him loomed a tall, angry figure.

8


	9. What the Butler Saw

Chapter 9: What the Butler Saw

The figure loomed slowly closer, towering over the cowering pair. Hermione and Draco stepped back until they could feel the hardness of rough bark against their backs. Above them the moon shone in a beautiful white orb.

"Get your wand out, get your wand out!" Draco shrieked, tugging hard on Hermione's arm as he pulled her in front of him.

"Lumos!" Hermione commanded, pointing the wand straight in the face of the howling creature.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness, and even longer for her brain to compute what she was seeing. But the elongated nose and scraggly grey hair was unmissable. In fact, it took so long for her to move that eventually the creature lunged forward into the weak semicircle of light.

"Hermione, what are you doing here?" He spoke in a low, hoarse whisper, the edges curled with sweaty panic. "And Draco too?"

"R-R-Remus?" Hermione eventually managed to stutter out, before collapsing into Draco as the mad adrenaline rush finally wore off.

"What's he doing here?" Draco huffed, half-supporting Hermione's limp form. "I thought my father saw to it that he'd never dare show his face in the Wizarding World again."

Yet there was no mistaking that same care-worn young face, despite the extra lines etched across his features. But the stoop that had been so evident at Hogwarts was gone tonight, and the eyes set in that tired face seemed more alive, flashing from their eye sockets. Altogether, he seemed more… more. Everything about him seemed to be buzzing with a strange urgency; like a man given two days to live the end of his life. Hermione wondered how patched his teaching robes would look now, if he were to put them on again.

"This is no place for children," Lupin said slowly, gently pulling Hermione away from Draco's grasp. "You don't want to be in this wood tonight." He looked up wistfully at the full moon, a small tear in the corner of his bright eyes.

"What's happening tonight?" Hermione whispered.

"Tonight," Lupin said slowly, tearing his eyes away from the magnificent moon in the sky. "Tonight there's a Lunar Meet."

"What's that?" Draco demanded, pushing himself forward and flinging Hermione aside.

"It's the seasonal Werewolf gathering," Hermione answered unexpectedly to his side.

"That's right, Hermione." Lupin nodded. "Every Werewolf with four legs is going to be descending on this place in a couple of hours. They're already arriving; I can feel it." He looked down at his fingers, turning his hands over to examine the soft pink undersides. "Please don't tell me you went looking for this?"

"Are you crazy? What, thought I fancied a romantic stroll around a Werewolf convention with Granger?" Draco drawled, looking his old Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher contemptuously up and down.

"We have to get you out of here," Lupin said simply, scanning the surrounding area. "I – I haven't taken Wolfsbane. I can't deny what I am. I can already feel my bones starting to splinter. We don't have long!"

"Draco can Apparate," Hermione said quickly.

Lupin raised an eyebrow. "Can he?"

"Yes," Draco snapped impatiently. "Now we can either stand here swapping recent news or get the swazz out of this hell-pit before some mangy wolf takes a liking to my kneecaps."

"Right," Lupin said authoritatively. "We need to find an Apparating point. There's a small hill just beyond, in a clearing. You can see the forest laid out for miles around. Think you can get your bearings from that, Draco?"

He nodded grumpily.

"Well what are we waiting for, come on!" Lupin shouted as he began tearing off through the trees. "I can protect you from the others as best I can, but in the end I can't protect you from myself. The moon's rising!"

Running through the dense forest they became aware of other sounds, other unexplained bumps and scrapes that raised the heckles on their backs. And now no longer the solitary howling of one wolf, but answering calls, faint at first, but clearer as they charged on. As the forest floor began to rise it became harder to keep running, and even Draco started to lag with a burning chest.

"Nearly there," Lupin shouted over his shoulder, only to be answered by a clear, electrifying howl emanating from the trees to their left.

"I can't, I can't go on," Hermione wheezed, her knees buckling as she collapsed to the floor.

"Yes you can!" Draco shouted, dragging her up unceremoniously around the armpits. He took her hand in his own and took off at a sprint, pulling her along behind him. Hermione had always marvelled at the stupidity of men in horror films who supposed that grabbing their partner's hand would facilitate speed. But then it seemed that Draco had motivations other than brawny gallantry, for he shouted behind that they would need Hermione's wand if the approaching creatures caught them before they could Apparate. Textbook Slytherin behaviour.

"Look, I can see it," he breathed as they charged through the thinning trees toward a moonlit glade.

Scrambling up the bare tor they staggered over to where Lupin was standing keeled over, clutching his bowels.

"Draco, take a look around quickly so you can Apparate."

Hermione followed Draco with her eyes as he scanned the surrounding area, looking up to the night sky several times for reference points.

"Remus," she said, suddenly snapping her attention away from Draco. "Why did we end up here when we both grabbed my wand?"

Lupin looked up, momentarily distracted from the pain in his churning guts. To her surprise he grinned - although in his current predicament it could easily have been mistaken for a grimace. "Elementary wand safety – didn't Alistair teach you anything?"

"Only that it was a bad idea to tuck your wand into your back pocket if you valued your derrière," Hermione shot back, slightly stung by the accusation of ignorance.

"Yes, well," said Lupin, distracted again by a pain in his side. "Lots of interfering hormones flying around between teenagers. If the sexual tension is strong enough, all sorts of weird and wonderful things can happen; witches shot into the North Sea, wizards finding themselves inexplicably on top of St. Paul's Cathedral – or, in your case, Inverness Forest."

"What?" Hermione shrieked. "There's about as much sexual tension between me and Draco Malfoy as… as between Mrs. Norris and Fang."

Lupin winced. "Look, stick close to Draco. Don't let him leave without you. I have to go, Hermione, before I become something else."

"But why didn't you take your Wolfsbane Potion? Why would you want to go to a Lunar Meet?" Hermione puzzled as she helped him up from the floor.

Lupin, trying to withhold a comforting howl as pain tore through his guts, snapped back. "Why do you think, Miss Granger? Why would I possibly want to meet up with female Werewolves? We're certainly not trading holiday snaps."

Hermione reddened. "I didn't – didn't mean to offend you. Here, before you go," To his surprise, Hermione leaned forward and administered a small but affectionate kiss to his increasingly hairy cheek. "Thank you for saving us."

"No problem, I'm just your friendly neighbourhood wolfman," Lupin muttered, before turning around and running as far away from such tempting, fleshy youth as he could.

"Draco, are you ready yet?" Hermione shouted over to the small silhouette at the other end of the mound. There was a terribly oppressive feel about the place, despite the open sky.

"Granger, stop flirting and get over here!" he barked back irritatedly. "Now I know I can Apparate out of here, but you have to do as I say unless you want Loopy Lupin to chew your face for real."

Hermione scowled. That was the trouble with teenage boys; there was no such thing as innocence. You couldn't squeeze Harry's hand for good luck, or give Ron a kiss in gratitude, it always had to be part of some bigger sexual agenda. She stalked over to him, placing her hands on her hips.

"Right," he said slowly. "Right. You have to maintain contact with me at all times, so – move closer for God's sake, woman! – put your arms around me, and I'll do the same."

Hermione felt decidedly awkward threading her arms around Draco's thin waist as he mirrored her actions – particularly in light of Lupin's information. But she didn't feel the same sense of embarrassment she would have felt with Ron, and she certainly didn't feel the heady, fluttery sensations she had experienced with George.

"Ready?" Draco drawled.

Hermione found herself flung into that same whirring, whizzing spin. Why did all magical travel seem to involve centrifugal motion – even Muggles had mastered the art of linear travel. She clutched on to Draco tightly, but by the time she managed to prise open her eyes they were already back, standing in the middle of the Weasley's kitchen.

But it seemed that the horrors of the forest had not been entirely left behind, because to their left there followed a most horrible, anguished howl.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Ron was at a loss with what to do with himself. He felt uncomfortable in any social situation he had to share with the rest of his family, never mind one populated by a significant number of his school teachers. Wherever he wandered in the house he always seemed to end up in the same room as Snape, subject to that all too familiar sneer. Or else his mother would swoop down to wipe some imaginary piece of dirt off his nose with ferocious vigour. If only Harry were here. Stupid Dursleys. For the thousandth time he cursed them to their Muggle bones.

"Hey, squirt, stop ogling McGonagall." George swept up, slapping Ron playfully across the back of his head.

Ron looked over to where Professor McGonagall was attempting a rather ambitious highland fling on the top of the polished dining table and winced. He wondered why anyone subjected themselves to the mercy of potent alcoholic drinks. She would probably not remember her actions in the morning, but the sight of her tartan clad nether regions would stay with Ron forever. Years from now he would find himself still refusing short cake biscuits, always releasing a little shudder at the sight of bow-tied Westie dogs.

"Don't call me that." Ron scowled, brushing his ruffled hair back down. "I'm half a foot taller than you."

"But always one step behind," George said, shaking his head in mock despair. "Here, have you seen Dracula anywhere?"

"Snape? Over there," Ron said, pointing to the tall dark figure in the corner. "Admiring the cobwebs." He paused, wrinkling his nose. "What are you up to?"

"Moi? What have I ever done to deserve such fraternal suspicion?"

"Let me see; there was the time you decided to test your so-called freckle remover on me, the time you told me Floo Powder was meant to be taken internally, the time you-"

"Okay, okay, I wasn't asking for petty specifics," George said vaguely, holding his hand up.

"So what do you want Snape for then?"

"Let's just say that I feel like spreading a bit of the Weasley Christmas cheer. Here, are you doing anything with that mistletoe?" George said, already reaching a hand out toward the dangling sprig clutched in Ron's left hand.

"As a matter of fact I am," Ron said quickly, pulling his hand back.

George paused, staring into Ron's eyes. "She's far too sensible to be duped by a wilting weed."

"Who?" Ron replied, rather too quickly to maintain an entirely casual tone.

George rolled his eyes. "Why, how many other girls do you moon over like a fawning puppy dog? Face it bro'; in Hermione's eyes you'll always be the little squirt who got covered in troll bogey."

"I do not moon!" Ron snapped, colour rising to his cheeks. "Besides, what would you know about that? You'll always be the idiot brother of the best friend who saved her from aforementioned troll."

"You're right, what would I know?" George smiled to himself, willing to concede this pyrrhic victory. "Now, are you going to give me that mistletoe, or do I have to embarrass you into submission?"

Ron groaned. "I'm half a foot taller than you, you can't sit in my stomach and tickle my feet anymore."

"So you keep saying. Anyone would think you had a size complex. Can't say I got the same unfortunate genes as you. Now do you really want me to share such sensitive material with your object of affection?" George grinned cheekily. He reached forward and grabbed the mistletoe easily from Ron's slack hand. "Thank you. That wasn't too difficult now was it?"

"Hey, I want that back when you're done!" Ron shouted after George, before skulking off to see if he could find some more.

"Professor Snape. I must say you're looking very suave tonight." George grinned winsomely as he strolled up to Snape's turned back.

With palpable effort Snape turned his head to face the latest Weasley invader. What was it with those people; were they so consumed by their own self-congratulating Cornflakes' packet lifestyle they felt the need to impress it on every other unenlightened native? If it wasn't Molly Weasley trying to shove another canapé down his throat under the misguided impression that all bachelors were malnourished, it was one of those blasted freckled children flaunting their mental delinquency. They didn't deserve such blissful self-confidence.

"What do you want, Weasley?" He had never been able to tell the two of them apart – he found it difficult enough to tell one Gryffindor from another as it was. Slytherins were different; they had guts, personality.

"I was just wondering if you cared to take a turn upstairs? There's a quite fascinating specimen in the library I think you might enjoy."

Snape frowned. What was the boy up to? He stared hard into George's deep blue eyes, but there was not a flicker of anxiety. He couldn't turn down the lure of an antique book, and what harm could one young Weasley do?

But then Snape's mistake always was to underestimate those whom he did not understand.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Looking around the assorted company of weather beaten faces Ron could almost approve of the apparent lack of mistletoe in the house. There was only one thing for it; he would have to return to the Burrow and pluck another sprig from their own gaily decorated kitchen. Then he would find Hermione, pull her away from her boring adult conversation, and casually suggest the traditional mistletoe kiss. And he didn't care if Fred, George, or the entire Cambodian football team saw him – at least it would shut everyone up for once.

Trying to attract as little attention as possible he slipped into the kitchen and sidled up to the fireplace.

"The Burrow!" he shouted into the cavernous space as he stepped into the green flames.

Rubbing the excess powder from his eyes Ron stepped blinking into the familiar kitchen. Spotting the hanging mistletoe, he was just walking toward the low roof beam when he encountered the twin figures of Hermione and Draco entwined around one another in a steamy-looking clinch. Horrified, he let out an anguished howl.

Hermione whipped around; first in panic and then surprise. "Ron!"

"What. Is. He. Doing. Here," Ron fumed through gritted teeth.

Hermione looked from Ron's flushed face down to Draco's arms and swallowed hard. "Ron, it's not what you think," she said, quickly disentangling herself from Draco's tight embrace and walking towards him.

"No? Some national hug-a-creep day I should know about?"

Draco sniggered.

Ron spun around. "Get out of my house, Malfoy!"

"Gladly. See you around, Hermione." He grinned, raising a suggestive eyebrow at Ron before ambling slowly out of the front door.

"So. What is it then?" Ron demanded, crossing his arms confrontationally.

"I can explain," Hermione pleaded.

"Start," Ron growled.

"It's such a long story. I don't know where to start really."

"Try the beginning," Ron said tersely. "Better yet, don't bother at all. It's none of my business if you want to get off with some slimy git. Just don't flaunt your bad taste in my face."

Her protestations of innocence proved futile as Ron stormed off back to Grimmauld Place.

Men. There was no such thing as innocent touch to teenage boys. But then, had it been an innocent touch to her?

8


	10. The Final Countdown

Chapter 10: The Final Countdown

"Erm… it's at the end of the library professor, very rare specimen, very fine." Fred sniffed appreciatively, trying to make it sound as though he actually knew what a fine book would look like.

Seemingly the same thought had just occurred to Snape as he eyed Fred suspiciously.

"Oh gosh, is that the time?" Fred said suddenly as they passed a tall grandfather clock chiming the hour. "I really said I'd go and make sure my sister is okay. But if you just go straight to the end of the room you'll find it on the bottom shelf, er, big green thing it is." He gesticulated toward the gloomy end-section of the library.

"Weasley, this better not be one of your-"

"No time now! Really must dash!" George interrupted cheerfully as he sprinted out of the room.

Hmmm. Snape stepped forward cautiously, carefully eyeing the room – he was damned if he'd let a Weasley get the better of him. Yes, he _could_ detect some sort of movement at the end of the room. Slowly, quietly, he edged forward until he reached the poorly lit corner the Weasley boy had pointed to and discovered, sure enough, a fine leather-bound emerald book sitting on the bottom shelf. He bent down to blow the dust of the spine to – owwwwwwwwww!

"What the devil?" He spun around so quickly he almost took Tonks' eye out with the point of his wand. In the event, that may have been preferable to the resulting damage issued from a pissed off and startled Slythie…

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Hermione stayed in the Weasley kitchen a few minutes longer before following Ron, trying to decide what she would tell George. He would not be happy that she had handed the diary over to Draco, but then what else was a girl to do trapped in a werewolf-infested forest late at night without a wand? She was sure he would understand her pragmatism. With resolve, she entered into the fireplace and shouted out her desired destination.

It took her a while to find George, huddling in a corner in a downstairs room giggling with Fred.

"…so I've left them to it and all we can hope is that nature takes its course." Fred grinned, taking a large swig from his tumbler.

"George?" Hermione tapped him tentatively on the shoulder.

"Oh." George paused, furrowing his brow slightly as he swivelled his head round. "It's you."

"Ten out of ten for observation," Hermione replied dryly, stepping between Fred and George. "There's something I need to tell you – alone," she emphasised, shooting a cold glare at Fred.

"Fine, fine." George gestured at his brother to leave them, before turning back to Hermione. "What is it?" he asked somewhat brusquely, suddenly assaulted with the mental image of Hermione kissing Fred all over again for some reason. He shook his head quickly.

"Well, the diary's been handed in." Hermione couldn't quite manage to keep the triumphant tone out of her voice, imaging George's surprise and admiration.

"You didn't just disturb Tonks now, did you?"

"What's that got to do with anything? I gave it back to Malfoy when he arrived at the burrow demanding I return his property," Hermione huffed. "George, I have just spent the last few hours traipsing around a forest playing host to a Werewolf convention with Draco Malfoy. Did you even notice I'd gone, been, well, kidnapped!" Her voice rose shrilly as she continued. "What did you think these were doing in my hair?" She gestured to the broken twigs and dry leaves entwined in her tangled hair.

"Well, I don't like to judge your fashion statements," George replied somewhat defensively as he took a distancing step backward.

"George, I was nearly ripped apart by a pack of ravenous Werewolves, does that mean anything to you?"

"Well, I guess I, well…" George blinked rapidly. "Wait – what was Malfoy doing in my house?"

"Yeah! Why don't you ask her what _she_ wasdoing with Malfoy in our house?" Ron said angrily as he entered the small dining room.

"What?" Hermione turned around distractedly to face their new companion.

"Okay then," George said slowly as he looked from one red face to another. "Hermione, what were you doing with Malfoy in our house?"

"He was-"

"He was coming to visit _her_ because she invited him to because she's been seeing that git," Ron garbled, jabbing an accusing finger at Hermione.

"Oh Ron, you idiot! How can you get it so wrong?" She took a deep breath and began embarking on a lengthy explanation encompassing her journey from their front garden to the forest and back. "…and that's why it looked like I was kissing that slimeball, when really all that had happened was that you chose the exact moment to walk in that we Apparated into the kitchen holding on to each other."

There was a long pause as a puzzled look descended over Ron's face. "But why did you end up in that forest in the first place?"

"I told you." Hermione reddened. "It was, er, incompatible wands; a Slytherin touching a Gryffindor's wand. It can happen in some cases." She looked down at her feet quickly.

Just then they heard a loud clattering on the stairs accompanied by a strange, wailing noise. "By dose! Whad have you done to by nose?"

The three of them exchanged puzzled glances before Fred rushed into the room, colliding clumsily into the back of Ron.

"Sorry bro', but you'll never guess what's happened; Snape's only gone and hexed Tonks with a point blank curse! I think we Weasleys better make ourselves scarce." With that, he grabbed the back of Ron's shirt and sprinted out of the room again.

"What?" Hermione turned to face George with a puzzled frown on her face.

"Ah."

"What do you mean 'ah'? What's going on?" The music from the kitchen suddenly stopped so that Tonks' wailing could be heard clearly amid a clamour of angry voices and a sharp order from Kingsley evicting Ginny from the room. "I want to know what's happening," she demanded. "Come on, we can use one of your extendable ears."

"I don't know if that's such a good id-" But before he could finish Hermione had grabbed him by the sleeve and was pulling him toward the kitchen door, where Ginny was already crouching down with her head cocked next to the key hole.

"Shhh!" she hissed. "I think Snape is trying to explain himself."

George quickly unwound one of his extendable ears and they huddled around the end until it picked up the voices.

"But what were you thinking, Severus, hexing a poor, unarmed girl like that?" Professor McGonagall said sharply.

"I was startled! Any fool knows not to sneak up on a fully-trained Wizard like that," Snape huffed in reply. "Look, is she going to be alright?"

"Hmm, I'm sure Mungo's will be able to fix her up – eventually. Honestly, anyone would think you'd never had your bottom pinched before!"

There was an awkward silence in the room. Ginny let out a barely concealed giggle.

"Wait, what's this?" There was a sudden tug on the extendable ear.

"Time to scraper I think!" George abandoned the ear as the three of them quickly scattered from the hallway. Ginny dived behind a floor-length curtain while George and Hermione searched desperately for somewhere to hide. "In here, in here!" George hissed as he pulled Hermione into a coat wardrobe. Despite the thickness of the wooden panelling they could still hear the screaming of Mrs. Black's portrait which Ginny had unwittingly set off, and the resultant scolding from her mother.

"Phew, close shave!" George whispered from somewhere nearby as Hermione felt the warmth of his breath against the side of her face.

"George," Hermione said slowly. "Call it a hunch, but did that little scene there have anything at all to do with you and Fred, perchance?"

There was a pause. "We were just trying to spread some Christmas cheer. We thought they'd make a lovely couple in this time of giving and receiving."

"You tried to play matchmaking with Snape?" Hermione spluttered. "What on earth for?"

"We thought he might be lonely," said George sulkily. "We didn't know then that he was just plain sociopathic. I mean, nobody wants to be on their own at Christmas, right?"

The din outside was starting to abate slightly; seemingly someone had managed to draw the curtain back over the portrait again.

"You once told me you were lonely." Hermione reminded him, her heartbeat suddenly quickening.

"It's pretty difficult to be lonely when you've got a twin - especially one which you do everything with."

"But George, that's your choice, you don't have to. Why don't you try to do something by yourself, for yourself?"

"I tried that, remember?" George shot back. "But it seems even you didn't really want that – everyone wants me to just be one half of the Weasley twin monster."

There was a long silence when all Hermione could hear was the long shallow breathing of George. The space inside the dark wardrobe suddenly seemed to constrict as the walls pressed closer in. Then, suddenly, Hermione stamped down hard on George's foot.

"Ye-ow! What the hell was that for?" George hissed.

"For… for being you! For being idiotic! I may well be the only once who's seen you for who you are, just as George Weasley and not the counterpart to Fred, and now you're turning on me?"

"Yeah well, didn't stop you sampling the delights of Fred as well, did it?"

"I didn't! How many times do I have to tell you that I thought Fred was you and I made a mistake? It doesn't mean I wanted to kiss Fred. And I'll prove it," Hermione said resolutely. She took a deep breath. "George, this is for you, and you only." She grabbed him by the collar and pulled him toward her, planting a hard, loud kiss on his stunned lips. "There," she said primly, before charging out of the wardrobe and into the empty hall, leaving a stunned George to slowly clamber out many minutes later in a confused daze. He patted his jacket pocket thoughtfully. Yes, maybe it was time to sort things out once and for all.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Christmas day at the Weasley's was about as different an affair from the orderly regime imposed by her parents as one could imagine. No deferral of present opening until the afternoon, no gentle preservation of Aunt Maude's 'pretty' wrapping paper by carefully peeling off the sellotape, and – for once in her life – no bloody pair of socks! Instead, Hermione awoke early in the morning and followed the noise trail to the kitchen where a scene of utter carnage met her eyes as layers of multicoloured wrapping paper scrunched underneath her slippered feet.

"Come on, your presents are over here!" Ginny took Hermione's hand and led her over to a respectable looking pile before returning to her own frenzied unwrapping.

George sidled up discreetly amid the melee. "Here," he said, gently thrusting a small package into Hermione's hand. "I wanted you to have this to, erm, make up for being such a git." He reddened as Hermione accepted the gift and slowly peeled a corner open. "It's nothing really, just, erm, just something I saw and thought of you."

"But George, it's beautiful!" Hermione gasped as she opened the small velvet jewellery box to reveal the sapphire studded broach that Ginny had admired so much in Ottery St. Catchpole. "I don't know what to say."

"Say," George took a deep breath. "Say you'll be my girlfriend, Hermione."

"You idiot!" Hermione smiled, before throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him in front of a shocked Weasley clan.

THE END bows

6


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